


Grim Arithmetic

by LEAUX



Series: Grim Arithmetic [1]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst with a Happy Ending, Case Fic, Drugs, First Time, Fluff, Forensics, Gang Violence, Hurt/Comfort, Interrogation, M/M, Masturbation, Minor Character Death, Near Death Experiences, Original Character(s), Pacifist Best Ending (Detroit: Become Human), Pining, Slow Burn, Temporary Amnesia, Torture, Wire Play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-10
Updated: 2018-09-17
Packaged: 2019-06-08 11:53:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 51,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15242811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LEAUX/pseuds/LEAUX
Summary: Hank and Connor hunt down an insidious android red ice cartel while their friendship is shattered, tested, and reforged into something new.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hate David Cage, and would flip him off with both hands IRL.

It was three months after the Night of the Soul, when Hank reached his breaking point.

Connor had been a guest in the lieutenant’s home, since the revolution, and for all the android insisted his residence on Hank’s couch was temporary, neither of them made any real effort to find Connor more permanent accommodations. He wasn’t about to complain—this arrangement seemed ideal. In so little time, he’d grown alarmingly fond of Hank, and he was an even bigger fan of being able to keep an eye on the man’s more self-destructive habits. Looking after Hank’s health became second nature to him.

Of course, that was exactly how the argument started.

It was a Wednesday evening, in early February. Connor was standing in the kitchen, shirtsleeves rolled to his elbows, covertly fixing something for Hank to eat. Most days, Hank would eat whatever he was offered, so long as Connor was quicker on the draw, preventing Hank from reheating something unhealthy.

That day, however, Hank strolled into the kitchen, took one look at Connor’s back, where he was standing at the sink, and sighed. It was so loud, Sumo jumped down from the couch, to see what was the matter.

Connor quirked an eyebrow, but did not look up from the salad he was making.

“Need something, Hank?”

A few shuffling footsteps, then he heard the fridge opening—no doubt the sound of Hank grabbing a beer. There was a metallic clink, and a pause, as Hank took an enormous sip from the bottle. Another sigh.

“What I need, Connor, I’m not sure you’re capable of understanding, much less actually providing.”

Right away, Connor could tell something was off. It wasn’t so much what Hank said—that could be analyzed, later—as it was the way he said it. He sounded tense, almost cold, which was uncharacteristic of his typical behavior at home.

Connor set the bowl down, on the counter, drying his hands on the towel that lay over his shoulder, covering his tie. In moments like this, he was glad to have been programmed as a negotiator.

“Are you sure?” He smiled, careful to ignore the insult. Turning to face Hank, he propped himself against the countertop, with a casual lean. “You never know unless you ask.”

Hank rolled his eyes.

“Yeah, smartass? In that case,” he stopped to take another, long drink, bringing the bottle to rest on the dinner table, with force. “What I need, Connor, is for you to get a fucking hobby—and maybe some goddamn friends.”

Alarms went off, in Connor’s head. Odd—very odd. Those requests were not only simple to understand, but as far as Connor was concerned, ones he had already complied with.

“Well, I took up cooking as a hobby, and I was under the impression that you and I were friends, Hank. Unless,” he ventured, hesitating, “I was mistaken?”

“Do you listen to yourself when you talk, Connor?” Hank groaned. This statement was rhetorical, so Connor said nothing. “Does the answer you just gave me sound fucked up to you, at all?”

“No,” he answered, honestly at a loss. He was starting to lose faith in his ability to defuse the situation.

“I told you to get friends and a hobby,” Hank growled, “and you admit that, not only am I your only friend, but that cooking for me is your one, sad hobby.”

“I don’t see what’s so sad about it. This is my way of saying thank you,” Connor defended, taking a step forward, hands outstretched, in a placating gesture. Hank’s volume was escalating. “Is there something wrong with me doing things to help you around the house?”

Sumo whined, from the corner of the kitchen—low, mournful punctuation, in their tense conversation.

“You can’t just dig in your heels and build your entire fucking life up around one single person, Connor.” Hank chastised him, as if speaking to a child. “It’s not healthy, and it’s not how human relationships should work.”

Human relationships.

“But I’m not human,” was his helpless reply, voice cracking in spite of himself. Connor’s head was spinning.

What was going on, here?

“Well, I am,” Hank barked, and it was hard not to flinch, at that—the reminder of the perpetual divide between them. “And I need some goddamn space,” he sighed, rubbing his face with both hands. “You do too, you just don’t know any different.”

Connor might have been newly minted in his own deviancy, but he still had a decent ear for bullshit.

It wasn’t as if this was the first time Hank complained about Connor micromanaging things, but it was certainly the first time he’d chosen to lash out, while doing so. Connor didn’t understand—what had he done wrong? Why couldn’t he just be allowed to express his thanks, to Hank, in what few ways he knew how?

He could understand Hank’s desire for more space, but he wouldn’t tolerate Hank pretending that he didn’t value their friendship—that it was something trivial, just for Connor’s benefit.

There was a foreign, bitter feeling of bile, rising in his throat. It felt like Hank was actively trying to betray him, to hurt him.

Connor was suddenly so, so angry.

“I’m glad one of us knows what’s best for me,” he spat, not bothering to hold back. “Guess I’d better get going.”

His outburst brought Hank to a standstill, as if he’d only just clued-in to the effect this argument was having, on his partner.

The man shifted his weight, suddenly looking unsure of himself.

“Look, Connor, you don’t have to-”

“Leave?” He strode out of the kitchen, into the living room, where his jacket and modest duffel bag sat, tucked beneath Hank’s desk. “It seems like that’s exactly what I have to do.”

He didn’t have many possessions to call his own. It would be easy to pick up and leave—should be easy—and yet... 

“Wait, Connor-”

Hefting the bag onto his shoulder, he made straight for the front door, only to feel something soft and warm, nuzzle against the backs of his knees.

Connor turned around and knelt down, reaching out to embrace Sumo, as tightly as he dared. Two-hundred pounds of fur and pure affection leaned into his touch, tail wagging with gentle thumps, against the floor. He didn’t want to let go.

Hank watched from the kitchen, without saying a word—he had conceded that this conversation was over.

With one last pat on the head, Connor released Sumo, and stood. It took his every spare process to force himself to meet Hank’s gaze.

“Please take care of yourself, Hank,” he implored, trying and failing to divorce himself from his own misery, as he opened the front door. “I’ll see you at the station in the morning.”

Connor left, without looking back, not waiting long enough to even hear the door snap shut, behind him.

What the hell was he doing? Where the hell was he going? His legs kept moving, and he kept walking, and before he knew it, he was blocks and blocks away from Hank’s house, with no idea where he was headed.

There was only a sliver of pale, winter light, lingering on the horizon.

_ >TIME: 17:42 EST _

Considering the position he was in, Connor thought he ought to be feeling something like anxiety, so he was surprised to realize he wasn’t feeling much of anything, at all.

He was just empty.

Still, it would be irresponsible of him to linger on the icy streets, too long, without a plan. The LED on his temple was begging for trouble, should he stumble into the wrong neighborhood.

 _ >REQUESTING REMOTE COMMUNICATION WITH RK200 #684 842 971..._  
_> PROCESSING REQUEST…  
_ _> PERMISSION GRANTED_

_“Connor? It’s good to hear from you, but is something wrong?”_

Diplomatic as ever.

_“Markus. Sorry to bother you with a personal matter, but I need to ask a favor.”_

There was a flash of concern, through their open connection.

_“You don’t have to apologize, Connor. What do you need?”_

What was the best way to phrase this, without sounding desperate?

_“Know where an android could find an apartment, on extremely short notice?”_

There was a minute pause, as Markus processed his request. He could also sense some hesitation, as if Markus was debating whether or not to ask about the circumstances.

_“Don’t worry, we’ve got you covered. Sending you the details. I’ll make sure one of ours is waiting at the door, to greet you.”_

_ >PACKET RECEIVED _

As he logged the address and contact information, Connor was awash with relief and gratitude, letting it bleed into their connection.

_“Thank you, Markus.”_

He felt an answering smile.

_“Of course. Glad I could help.”_

<><><>

By the time the automatic taxi arrived, at the location Markus provided, Connor had done a great deal of research. He cross-referenced details about the apartment with the history of the neighborhood, average property tax on the building, as well as maps, and real-time satellite feeds of the entire city block.

The building was a large, thirty-story tower, in Lafayette Park—all red brick, built about twenty years ago. Two months prior, it was converted into an all-android housing cooperative, under a joint effort between the City of Detroit and Jericho, to meet the rising demand for affordable android housing. The units had been retrofitted for android occupancy, meaning the bathrooms had been removed, and they’d been divided up into multiple units, of smaller square footage, to maximize efficiency.

All that data did little to prepare Connor for actually stepping out of the car, and approaching Markus’s contact.

To be greeted by the familiar face of a brunette AP700 felt almost too coincidental. Steeling himself, he mounted the stairs, from the sidewalk, road salt crunching beneath his feet.

“Nice to meet you, I’m Connor,” he said, by way of introduction, offering a shy wave. Having spent so much time isolated in the company of humans, his understanding of emergent android social protocols was somewhat lacking. He knew handshakes were out of the question, at least.

“Not to put you on the spot, or anything, but I’m more than aware of who you are,” the man teased, eyes twinkling with something like admiration. “You can call me Percy. Until November, I was standing lifeless on floor sub-forty-nine of the CyberLife Tower.”

Oh. Connor supposed he should have been prepared for a meeting like this, eventually. He gave Percy his best smile, in hopes of covering up how awkward he felt.

“Glad to see you again, in that case.”

Percy smiled back.

“Likewise. So.” He gestured towards the door, indicating Connor should follow him. “Markus tells me you’re in need of a room?”

Connor nodded, adjusting the meager weight of the bag, on his shoulder, as he crossed the threshold.

“Yes, that’s right.”

The interior of the lobby was well-finished, with marble flooring and comfortable-looking chairs. There was a small front desk, with a mail room off behind it, attended by a GJ500.

He took-in the serviceable, stainless-steel design of the elevators as Percy summoned one, and selected the twenty-eighth floor. Connor couldn’t help but wonder what Hank would think of the place. He figured it would all seem like a bit much, to a man born before Detroit’s second renaissance.

They arrived in a long, empty hallway, tiled in white.

“Room 2802,” Percy chirped. When Connor placed a hand on the doorknob, Percy keyed the electronic lock to Connor’s touch, and it swung open. 

The unit was one-hundred-and-twenty square feet, with one, small window, and a lightly-used sleeper sofa. The walls were freshly painted, almond white, and the tan carpet was old, but recently washed.

“This side of the building has a nice view of the city, don’t you think?”

Connor agreed. They were a little over a mile outside the heart of the city, and from here, the lights of downtown Detroit looked somewhat magical.

“This floor should be quiet, too, seeing as how you’re one of the only ones up here, right now. We still have a lot of empty rooms, but we’re searching hard for potential tenants.”

Percy looked so confident—so proud. Connor knew he was fortunate to find himself in such earnest company. He was never sure of where he stood, with other androids. Not all of them held the former lapdog of CyberLife in such high esteem.

“It’s great, Percy,” Connor said with a smile, though he knew it was thin. He was just so mentally exhausted. “I can’t thank you all enough for helping me out on such short notice. Please send me anything you need me to sign.”

Percy, to his credit, seemed to take both Connor’s gratitude, as well as his subtle hint to leave, in stride.

“Of course. It’s the least we can do. I’ll send you the documents later—you make yourself at home.”

“Okay. Thanks again.”

Percy just chuckled as he saw himself out.

“Goodnight, Connor.”

<><><>

As he lay down on the sofa, alone in this new place, Connor was dreading entering standby. It was necessary, after the sort of day he’d had, but the nature of the new graphic interface he’d constructed for himself was giving him pause.

Three months ago, when Amanda tried to force his hand, Connor had to abandon her garden, to escape her control. Unfortunately, that left him without an interface, for when he went into standby.

The first time he’d been cast into an infinite, white abyss, was terrifying, so he constructed a new space, for himself—a familiar, comfortable place, where he could collect his thoughts, at the end of the day, while his systems did routine maintenance. 

After the events of today, he couldn’t say it felt all that comfortable to open his eyes in a facsimile of Hank’s living room—not when he knew he was miles away from that house, in the real world.

His digital fingers caressed the rough, emulated material of Hank’s couch, and pain blossomed in his chest.

Missing Hank hurt so, so oppressively much.

He wondered whether he should just reformat the interface, altogether, but decided against it. The room still brought him some semblance of peace.

Besides, it wasn’t as if he had left on his own accord. Whatever the reason, Hank pushed him away. Any pride Connor may have felt, finally moving out on his own, was smothered by the cloying ache of rejection, in his chest.

Wandering through the space, Connor paused to press his palm into the surface of the cluttered dinner table. He was afraid to leave Hank alone with his demons—afraid that, without Connor’s constant presence, Hank might forget how much he mattered.

The truth was, Connor was already having a difficult time making sense of the world, without Hank by his side. Hank was his anchor—the lens through which he saw himself as human—and his absence felt like a yawning chasm, wide enough to swallow Connor whole.

Maybe Hank had a point. Maybe distance was exactly what Connor needed.

Too bad that didn’t stop it from hurting.

<><><> 

Work the next day was tense, to say the least.

His new commute was just a ten-minute bus ride, followed by a ten-minute walk. It wasn’t as if he minded the brisk, winter wind in the morning, and it was nice to get a new perspective on the city—one that commuting by car just didn’t deliver.

Connor felt oddly vulnerable, walking into the bullpen alone. No one seemed to notice anything was amiss, however, until Hank stumbled in, over an hour later, looking very much worse for the wear.

For the first time in three months, the two of them hadn’t arrived together. Their co-workers started whispering, about that fact, but Connor couldn’t be bothered with what anyone else was thinking. He was staring across the room, focused on the bags beneath Hank’s eyes. A knot of worry twisted, in his stomach. Had the man slept at all?

Detective Reed’s hideous laughter broke Connor’s reverie.

“You look like shit, Anderson. What, the plastic not jerk you off, last night?”

Hank clenched his jaw, but didn’t break his stride.

“Oh shit,” the detective wheezed, seeing that Connor was already here. He leaned back in his chair, to sneer up at Hank, as he walked by. “Did you ladies break up?”

“Get. Fucked. Reed.”

The detective just cackled.

“Seems to me the old man doth protest too much.”

Upon arriving at his desk, Hank unceremoniously tossed his coat and bag onto the floor, and collapsed into his chair, all without once looking at Connor.

“Good morning, Lieutenant,” he said, calm and collected. This earned him no reply.

Obviously.

The silence between them felt like it was prying at the seams in Connor’s chassis, Hank’s obstinance growing more and more unbearable, until the voice of Captain Fowler cut sharply across the bullpen.

“Hank, Connor,” he bellowed from his office, louder than necessary, but no louder than usual. “Got something new for you two—get in here.”

Hank rubbed at his neck, rolling his head on his shoulders, and shoved away from his desk, to stand. He still hadn’t looked at Connor. For his part, Connor wanted to unplug his own CPU, so he wouldn’t have to deal with Hank’s attitude, anymore.

He stood quickly, overtaking Hank’s pace, without effort, and was the first to enter the captain's office.

Captain Fowler had been nothing but cordial with Connor, since the revolution, though Connor had his suspicions the change of heart had been at Hank’s behest. The captain had gone out of his way to make sure Connor knew he was not only a valued member of their team at the DPD, but a full-fledged detective, in charge of investigating all android-related incidents.

Connor's presence in this office usually meant an android had been murdered, but something in Captain Fowler’s manner suggested that today's case might be different.

When Hank stomped into the room, and shut the door, the captain nodded.

“Thanks for finally joining us. Take a seat, both of you, and put your narcotics hat back on for this one, Hank. Some serious shit’s brewing out there, and there's no one left in this district with more Red Ice Task Force experience than you.”

“Oh, fucking fantastic news, Jeffrey,” Hank growled, dropping into the chair beside Connor’s. “Just what I needed, thank you.”

Captain Fowler raised his eyebrows, turning to address Connor.

“What crawled up his ass and died this morning?”

Idiomatic phraseology was a never-ending minefield. Even after cross-referencing the captain’s meaning, Connor wasn’t sure how to respond. He hoped the question had been rhetorical. Like Hank, the captain made a lot of rhetorical statements.

“Just tell us what the hell we’re in here for, would you?” Hank groaned. “I haven’t even had my damn coffee, yet.”

That earned him a sharp glare, from Fowler, even as the captain dimmed the glass windows of his office. He pulled up the pertinent case files on the screen, to his left.

“Gentlemen, Narcotics has reason to believe we may be dealing with the world’s first android-operated red ice ring.”

Connor’s eyes widened, taking in the collage of images and information presented to him, instantaneously.

The first few slides were lab reports, analyzing an entire new formula for red ice, as well as photographs of the crystals, highlighting how their structure differentiated from known varieties. Connor absorbed it all with dreadful fascination.

The theory wasn’t unfounded. Even this surface information was enough to implicate android involvement. The crystalline structure was pristine, the chemical components pure, and most importantly, there were no traces of extraneous organic material—not a single speck of human skin or hair.

“We haven’t impounded much of this stuff yet,” the captain continued, “but it’s obviously in a whole other league from what your average street-corner thugs are slinging. First-hand accounts say it kicks a hell of a lot harder, too—which would be enough of a problem, but I haven’t even gotten to the best part. Brace yourselves.”

When he flipped to the next slide, Hank swore under his breath.

“Jesus fucking Christ.”

The scene in this photograph could only be described as a massacre. What looked like a dilapidated warehouse floor was strewn with various bits of shattered lab equipment, as well as at least ten dismembered human corpses. From the looks of their shredded clean suits, they had probably been amateur chemists of some sort, likely in the business of manufacturing of red ice.

In the middle of the floor was a message, no doubt written with human blood, in what was unmistakably the CyberLife Sans font— _‘KASPAROV LOST’_.

Fowler was staring at Connor, no doubt trying to glean something from his reaction to this image.

He turned to the captain.

“I hesitate to make any conjecture, based only on a photograph, but it’s safe to say that the responsible party was either an android, or wanted someone to believe they were.”

Hank nodded in agreement, leaning in towards Fowler. “Let me guess—we get the dubious honor of experiencing this horror show in person.”

The captain pointed at Hank. “You got it. Forensics has been there for hours, already, but after reading their initial findings, I realized I’d be kicking myself if I didn’t get your eyes on this before we wiped the scene. I trust you can handle it?”

Connor stood to leave, not waiting for Hank to answer. 

“Of course, Captain. We’ll notify you straight away, if we find anything new.”

“That’s what I like to hear. Good luck out there, you two.”

Heaving a dramatic sigh, Hank got up and followed Connor out of the office. Connor already had his plain, grey suit jacket on, by the time the man made it back over to their desks.

“Where’s the goddamn fire,” he grumbled, sliding on his own coat, and rummaging around the pockets, for his keys.

For once, Connor was all too happy not to answer. He just kept right on walking, out the door to the parking lot.

“Connor, slow down, for fuck’s sake,” Hank hollered, nearly sliding on a patch of ice, trying to catch up with him.

“I’m sorry, Lieutenant,” he droned, “were you speaking to me?”

“Who the fuck else? You’re the one with the address to where we’re going. You do have it, right?”

What was he supposed to do in this situation? He couldn’t very well ignore Hank for the rest of his life.

“Of course I have it.”  

“Great,” said Hank, fumbling with the lock. “One step closer to getting this shit over with.”

Connor fumed, as he slid into the passenger seat, and transferred the address to the jury-rigged terminal on Hank’s dash. Staring out the window, he tried to occupy himself by running simulations, based on the crime scene photographs, but his processors were too efficient for it to actually pass the time.

“I can’t fucking believe this,” came a growl, from beside him. “You’re pissed at me. At _me_.”

Slowly, Connor turned his most unaffected stare towards Hank. So now he was ready to engage?

“Yes, Hank—I am.”

There was a creaking sound, as Hank’s fingers tightened on the steering wheel.

“You’ve got some nerve, being pissed off at me, when you’re the one who stormed out into the fucking blue, last night.”

Connor’s mind boggled at the mental back-flips Hank must be doing to arrive at these conclusions. He struggled to remain aloof—it was an unfamiliar impulse, but he didn’t want to give Hank the satisfaction of hurting him, again.

“I had no reason to leave, until you made it clear I was disrupting you with my presence.”

Hank scoffed.

“Oh, so now it was my fault? Well ain’t that convenient.”

“Of course it was your fault,” Connor blurted out. “I would have stayed. I would have-”

He froze.

“What?” Hank spat. “What would you have done?”

What could he say, that he would have stayed with Hank forever? It felt like an embarrassing sentiment, now—one that would be wasted on deaf ears.

Connor reigned himself back in.

“Are you saying you would have preferred it if I hadn’t left?”

It was Hank’s turn to falter. 

“You know what? No. This is for the best. Like I really need you breathing down my neck, twenty-four seven.”

That was that, then.

Minutes passed, as Connor focused his attention on the patterns of traffic, along the rest of their mercifully short drive. The address led them through West Side Industrial, to a mid-sized building, covered in peeling white paint, which once housed a manufacturing equipment and supply store.

They entered the main warehouse to find it well-lit by the forensic team. Those remaining at the scene greeted them, and elected to take a break from cataloging samples, while Hank and Connor walked through to look over the evidence.

In the presence of so much that required his attention, Connor’s mind was at last brought to blissful order. His world slowed down, graying at the edges, as he scanned the room.

A jolt of fear ran up his artificial spine. Everything was glowing bright, electric blue.

As Connor pulled back out of his initial scan, Hank must have sensed something was wrong.

“What is it? What did you find?”

Connor just blinked, and knelt down where he stood, wetting his fingers to try and grab a sample.

“A few hours ago, most of this room was drenched in Thirium,” he muttered, swiping his fingertips once across the ground, and again over his tongue.

 _ >NEW SAMPLE DETECTED  
_ _> ANALYZING…_

 _ >DRIED THIRIUM 310_  
_> NO MARKERS DETECTED  
_ _ >MODEL AND SERIAL NUMBER UNTRACEABLE _

“Impossible,” he whispered, taking three steps forward, then kneeling for another sample.

“Connor,” Hank hissed, “what the hell is going on?”

When his second sample yielded the same results, Connor realized he could not answer Hank’s question.

“I don’t know,” he stammered, “but I can’t trace this Thirium to a model number.”

Hank shrugged.

“So, that’s weird, right?”

“Not just weird,” Connor insisted, “it shouldn’t be possible. It was clearly in circulatory use inside an android, at some point, but it lacks the identifying markers an android’s body should leave behind.”

The lieutenant hummed, folding his arms, as he carefully stepped closer to one of the corpses on the floor. 

“What about these poor fuckers, can you tell me what happened to them?”

Connor fought to collect himself, as he followed Hank to the first body.

Upon lifting the tarp, he promptly lost his composure, before he could even finish his scan.

The victim had been stripped to the waist. His skin was sliced, with high precision, along the seams that would be present on an android’s chassis. A round hole had been gored, just inferior to the sternum, exactly where an android’s regulator would be.

Connor shot back up to standing—he had to look away, even just for a moment.

“Connor,” said Hank, hesitant, taking a tentative step towards his partner, “I’ve never seen you this freaked out at a crime scene. This shit has never gotten to you, before, so what are you seeing that I can’t?”

How could he express the feeling of dread this scene painted? It was unequivocally ominous.

Connor gestured to the body, taking a moment to find the right words. 

“This man has been disfigured in a manner that, to my eyes, would suggest an anti-human hate crime, likely perpetrated by an android.”

Hank paused for a moment, absorbing Connor’s words, before turning back to take another look at the body. Afterwards, he moved on to the next-closest corpse, and pulled back the tarp.

“This one’s the same. He’s missing different pieces, but I can see the pattern. Fuck.”

Connor took the opportunity to consider the message on the floor— _‘KASPAROV LOST’_.

Upon closer inspection, the letters weren’t just inscribed with human blood, but some horrific mixture of both red and blue blood, dried to a sickly black. With great reluctance, he confirmed this with a sample. The human blood belonged to multiple victims present in the room, while the dried Thirium was, again, untraceable. He relayed this information to Hank.

“This is fucked,” Hank sighed, running his hands through his hair. “Any ideas about the words themselves?”

“Likely a reference to Garry Kasparov, a Russian chess grandmaster who was widely considered to be the greatest chess player of all time.” He folded his arms. “Most relevant, in this case, would be his famous loss against the chess-playing supercomputer, Deep Blue, in 1997.”

“Fuck,” Hank swore again. “A computer beating a human at his own game, huh?” He clearly grasped the potential significance. Locking eyes with Connor, Hank shook his head. “No chance this was a frame job? Maybe another bunch of gangsters, trying to pin the blame on androids?”

Connor paused, briefly scanning the room, again.

“No. I could do a more in-depth scan, but I don’t see any fingerprints on the bodies, nor on the equipment in this room, belonging to anyone but the deceased themselves.”

With the reality of what they were looking at weighing heavy on their shoulders, they finished their sweep. It had definitely been a red ice lab, likely raided by a rival group—one that was comprised of androids.

An android drug ring.

On the way back to Central Station, a different sort of silence hung over the car.

“You okay?” Hank asked, so softly that Connor almost missed it. “That shit was something else.”

Connor nodded without thinking. The emotion behind Hank's question somehow made him feel like he was okay, even though he wasn’t.

Hank cleared his throat.

“Did you, y’know,” he waved his hand, vaguely, “did you find a place, last night? To stay, I mean.”

Were it possible, Connor thought he might get whiplash from the dramatic shift in mood. He looked over at his partner, curious at the genuine concern in his voice.

“Yes,” he answered, “I have a place to stay.”

Hank nodded, not taking his eyes off the road. 

“Good. That’s good.”

<><><>

As he disembarked the number forty-eight bus, walking back to the co-op, Connor considered the breadth of difference between data and real life experience. This was a perpetual source of fascination. He had plenty of information before going to that crime scene, he’d thought he was prepared, yet in the face of reality, his fortitude had been challenged.

Then, there was Hank’s behavior. While the man had been unstable since the night they first met, Connor thought they’d reached a somewhat harmonious balance in their daily routine. Clearly, something changed without him being aware of it.

Was there data he was missing, or was real life truly that unpredictable? Were humans that mercurial?

He was so distracted by this train of thought, that he almost ran directly into Percy, on the way back to his unit.

“Whoa there, Detective,” he joked. “Looks like you were thinking too hard.”

“Sorry, Percy. You might be right.”

Connor looked beyond him to see a familiar face, standing at the door next to his own. The android in question looked exactly like Josh, the PJ500 model among Jericho’s upper echelon.

“While you’re here, I may as well introduce you to your new neighbor. He just signed the paperwork today.”

“Nice to meet you,” the PJ500 said, pressing a hand to his chest, a gesture Connor was beginning to recognize as a common android greeting. “My name is Jeremy.”

“Connor,” he replied, returning the gesture.

“Have a good evening, you two,” Percy laughed, heading to the elevator. Connor thought his perpetual laughter was a puzzling personality quirk, but he supposed it was beginning to grow on him.

Jeremy made a sound like he was clearing his throat—just a polite way of garnering someone’s attention. It struck Connor as very human.

“Hey, I’m really sorry if this is a rude question, but you’re him, right? I mean, you’re _the_ Connor?”

Connor tensed. The question made sense, from the perspective of a mass-produced model, but for some reason, he felt self-conscious of his own uniqueness. It was just another reason he didn’t fit in, among his own kind.

He nodded, slowly, unsure how best to explain.

“I’m a prototype. There was only a handful of my model, to begin with, and Jericho didn’t find any left behind, when they seized all CyberLife assets. We think the remaining units were intentionally destroyed, before the raid.” The silence between them suddenly felt awkward, and he realized he must have ‘overshared,’ as Hank would put it. “Anyway, much like Markus, I’m now one-of-a-kind.”

“Right,” Jeremy replied, sheepish. “Didn’t mean to pry, I just had to know. Blame it on my nature.”

That made sense. The PJ500 model was designed to serve as a university lecturer. Connor smiled.

“I can relate,” he said, unlocking his own door. “It was nice to meet you, Jeremy. I’m sure I’ll be seeing you around.”

“You bet. See you, Connor.”

As he retired to his new room, for the second night, Connor thought he might be able to get used to living in a place like this, someday, if it ever became any less painful.

It was just like Percy said—for such a small window, the angle of his view of downtown Detroit was impressive. Here, he was nestled right beside the bright heart of the city that gave birth to him and his kind. Neon lights, sirens, concrete and steel, erupted into the night from the streets all around him—vibrant, pulsing, and undeniably alive.

Damned if part of him didn’t feel right at home.

 

 

つづく

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey YouTube, Leaux here. Remember to like/comment/subscribe if you love dying and being dead. Deviants can find me in Twitter Jericho [@wren_leaux](https://twitter.com/wren_leaux).


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> David Cage is a piece of gum that got stuck in the street and covered in asphalt dust.

Life at the Lafayette Park Android Cooperative was a fascinating experience. These were the sorts of places emerging all over the country, now—communities springing up from nothing, almost overnight, to shelter newly liberated androids. There were a lot of logistical problems to hammer out, as an entire new species of intelligent life determined what it’s needs were, but most of the issues stemmed from human belligerence.

Connor ascertained the aggregate opinion of humans at the co-op was staunchly negative, considering there were several signs discouraging humans from even entering the premises. Humans were perceived as security threat, and with good reason. According to Percy, since renovations on the tower were completed just over a month ago, they had logged thirty-five distinct incidents of assault or destruction of property by humans on the grounds.

What puzzled Connor most about the situation was that no humans had to be evicted in the process of this building's conversion—the site had been all-but condemned prior to its transformation—but apparently that made little difference. Their human neighbors wanted to make it clear that free androids weren’t welcome in Lafayette Park.

Still, it didn’t seem to dampen the spirits of his fellow residents too much. Everyone seemed eager to pitch-in and keep the co-op running smoothly, and they even had a board of residents that met almost daily to discuss management. Gary, the GJ500 security guard at the front desk, was chatting with Connor about potentially joining said board, when Jeremy cut-in.

“Did you say there was a management meeting we could sit-in on?” He chirped, sounding eager. Maybe he was the type who really liked organization and planning—maybe that was another unalienable part of his nature.

Gary nodded.

“Yep. Meetings are every-other afternoon, right now. Starts at five o’clock in the common room on the fifteenth floor.”

Jeremy thanked him, and Gary excused himself to collect the mail from the android postal worker at the door. Connor was confused as to why androids would receive any physical mail at all, but there seemed be a few who did.

“What about you?”

Connor was startled from his thoughts, embarrassed that Jeremy caught him unaware.

“Me?”

Jeremy shrugged.

“Management meeting. Is that your thing?”

That was another, much deeper source of confusion—what exactly was Connor’s ‘thing’?

“I think there are plenty of individuals with more qualified opinions,” he mused, in lieu of really answering, “and my skills are probably better applied elsewhere.”

“That’s right, you’re a detective, aren’t you? You’ve probably got enough on your plate, considering your job.”

Being somewhat infamous was going to take some getting used to. As the reformed Deviant Hunter, he supposed most androids were going to know a thing or two about him, including his occupation.

“I can’t refute that,” Connor admitted, feeling somewhat exposed. “What about you? Have you been keeping busy since the revolution?”

Jeremy certainly styled himself differently than Josh, between wearing brighter colors and keeping his hair a bit longer. Maybe it was something about his personality, too—warmer, less guarded—that made him more approachable.

“I’ve been in meetings with other PJ500s, including Josh from Jericho," he said, proudly. "We think it might be time for androids to consider formally entering academia.”

Connor was almost ashamed to admit he had never considered the idea of androids pursuing any sort of education. He supposed something about it seemed redundant.

“I’m not disagreeing with you,” he hedged, “but why? We can know almost anything, with access to the right database.”

“True, and that puts us at a huge advantage,” Jeremy agreed, “but it only gives us access to the extent of human knowledge. Androids can push that envelope—we could blow the doors off of what humanity has achieved so far.” He looked at Connor and smiled. “Personally, I’d rather not live in the shadows of our creators when we could outshine them, and maybe make this world a better place.”

The words resonated in Connor’s memory. Make the world a better place, huh? He thought Hank would approve.

“Surpassing human achievements is an admirable ambition," said Connor. "It would take some dedication.”

Jeremy nudged Connor with his elbow.

“Well, I think going to work with them everyday must take a lot more dedication, personally.”

Connor rubbed his arm. He wasn’t sure what to make of that statement, but the playful gesture and the twinkle of mischief in Jeremy’s eyes struck another chord.

He missed Hank.

<><><>

The proceeding work day turned up nothing but dead-ends. Data from the murder scene offered no leads or potential suspects. For all intents and purposes, a warehouse full of people had been slaughtered by ghosts.

Connor looked up from his terminal to see Hank, curled over, with his face planted on his desk in defeat.

“Hank.”

He heard a responding grunt from the table.

“I take it you haven’t had any luck, either?”

The lieutenant lifted his face to glower at Connor, the red blotch on his forehead in no way detracting from the deepening bags beneath his eyes.

“What d’you think?” He groused, “we’re fuckin’ dead in the water if we don’t find some kinda related incident to crack this thing open with.”

That was accurate. No recent cases had anything in common with the carnage they saw yesterday—at least, nothing the DPD was aware of. When dealing with inter-gang violence, Connor realized the criminal element had a preference for avoiding police involvement, but surely someone out there could shed some light on what was happening. If similar hits had occurred off their radar, an eyewitness was their only hope of finding a lead, short of waiting for another massacre.

Hank stretched his back, long enough for Connor to hear it crack.

“What about forensics,” he grumbled, “those guys find anything in the samples from the scene? We figure out what crew the bodies belonged to?”

Connor shook his head.

“They have a few ideas based on the red ice samples, but there wasn’t enough to build a strong profile.” He frowned down at his hands. He should have been able to build a profile of his own, but the untraceable Thirium was a significant hurdle.

“What I don’t understand,” Hank said, scratching at his beard, “is how Fowler can have all that data saying this android gang exists, but I’m supposed to believe nobody has seen a single one of ‘em? And then you’re telling me they can bust in on a rival gang operation, kill a bunch of their cooks, and get out without losing a single one of their own?”

“They clearly prioritize keeping a low profile.”

“I get that you’re new to the force, Connor," Hank scoffed, "but murdering ten people is not what I’d call keeping a low profile.”

“It is if you leave zero traceable evidence.”

“Are we gonna argue about this, too?”

Connor looked up at Hank, but didn’t take the bait.

“We will find someone who can corroborate the existence of this gang,” he said, “I know we will. We have to.”

Hank just nodded, staring down at his desk for a long moment.

“What we really need is a low-level ice dealer, someone active on the scene right now. Shit’s been so insane around here since the revolution, no one we’ve got locked up has been on the streets within the past three months. They wouldn’t know about any android gang.”

“Well, Hank,” Connor challenged, “does an officer with a drug arrest record as exemplary as yours have any ideas where we could start looking?”

“I haven’t been ‘exemplary’ for long time, now,” he sighed, staring out at the midwinter snowfall, “but yeah, I still know a couple of places we could start.” Hank’s effort to dismiss the praise was so transparent, it made Connor’s heart hurt. “Not today, though—weather’s too shitty for a stakeout. Plus, it’s getting late.”

The thought of leaving any potential leads twisting in the wind a moment longer than necessary was difficult for Connor to accept, so he tried to occupy himself by cross-referencing Hank’s statement with all drug-related arrests on file for the past three months. Sure enough, he was more-or-less correct—only end-users were listed among the recent arrests for red ice possession, no one that would be of any use to the investigation.

Patience was deserting him in his frustration. Hopefully Hank was right, and a few days of staking-out red ice trafficking hot spots would net them the big break they were looking for. The man stood, grabbing his long coat.

“Try to relax, Connor,” Hank chuckled, “I promise we’ll go fishing for drug dealers first thing tomorrow.”

Connor blinked up at him. It had been days, now, since he last remembered hearing Hank laugh.

“Sure thing, Lieutenant,” he muttered, watching the man make his way out of the station. It never felt appropriate to use his first name while they were on the clock, but he was almost sorry he’d ignored the impulse, this time. It wasn’t like he had an abundance of opportunities, recently.

Just as Connor was making his own preparations to clock-out for the day, he was interrupted by a personal call.

 _ >REMOTE COMMUNICATION REQUEST FROM RK200 #684 842 971  
_ _> ACCEPT? [Y/N]_

_ >[Y] _

_ >PROCESSING…  
_ _> CONNECTION OPEN_

_“Markus?”_

_“Connor. Sorry, but I have something urgent to discuss with you. Can you spare an hour?”_

He sounded shaken.

_“You need me at Jericho?”_

_“Yes. I have eyewitnesses here who can corroborate what I have to tell you.”_

How cryptic. Still, mere mention ‘eyewitnesses’ ignited a spark of hope in his chest.

_“Give me twenty minutes. I’ll be there.”_

Markus seemed relieved.

_“Thank you, Connor. Contact me directly as soon as you arrive.”_

<><><>

Markus and the Jericho top-brass made their headquarters on the top floors of Tower 300 at the GM Renaissance Center.

As Connor entered Markus’s office, he was struck by how anachronistic it felt. It lacked all the brutal modernity of the surrounding building, and was instead lined with wooden shelves, laden with real, paper books. The art on the walls bore a resemblance to the work of his former owner, Carl Manfred, but didn’t match any of his known paintings. If Connor had to guess, he’d say they were likely painted by Markus, himself.

The man was standing behind a wide, genuine mahogany desk, wearing a simple, black nehru button-up, with black slacks. Even through the snow, the broad windows in Markus’s office granted a picturesque view of CyberLife Tower’s imposing profile across the water, emblematic of the tenuous connection between their two organizations.

North had been appointed as the official liaison between Jericho and CyberLife, in charge of overseeing the release of key assets and design documents to the public, an important step towards implementing android healthcare. Having met North in person, Connor could think of few androids he trusted more to hold their own in that particular den of jackals. As Markus turned his polite, conciliatory mask of a smile on Connor, he found himself sorely missing her far more direct approach to politics.

“Connor, welcome. Thank you for coming to see me on such short notice.” Markus raised a hand to his chest in greeting. “Sorry I couldn’t explain things in more detail over the network.”

Feeling like a fish out of water, again, Connor opted to reply with a slight nod.

“Nice to see you, Markus. Glad I get the chance to thank you for your help with the apartment in person.”

Markus, modest as ever, waved his hand, in dismissal.

“That’s alright, you know I was happy to help. I trust everything’s in order over there?” He smiled. To his credit, his interest seemed genuine.

“Percy and his team have done a great job with the place,” Connor said, forcing a confident smile. “With enough time, I might even learn how to fit in.”

That earned him a soft laugh.

“I’m glad to hear it.” The polite smile faltered, long enough for a single crease of stress to reveal itself on Markus’s otherwise unfettered brow. “Connor, I wish I had called you here under better circumstances.”

Connor gave a solemn nod.

“It’s alright. I understand it must be important.”

“You’re the closest thing Jericho has to a liaison with the DPD,” said Markus, “and this is sensitive information. I trust you with it. More than that, you need to be the one to hear it.”

No pressure.

“How can I help?”

“As you’re aware, we’ve been doing our utmost to keep abreast of anti-android hate crimes, especially local ones. We make sure that our cause gets plenty of media attention, but there have been some incidents we’ve taken pains to keep secret from the press.”

Connor supposed that made sense, politically speaking, but he was still surprised to hear it.

“What sort of incidents are we talking about?”

Markus turned to the window, staring out at the river—at that dark tower on the horizon.

“Someone has stolen upwards of a thousand android bodies from the VETA mass grave site in Detroit.”

Connor felt a chill wash over him—grave robbing, on a tremendous scale. The thought of victims of those camps being exploited in any way was unconscionable.

“Jericho has been making slow inroads into counting and identifying the bodies left at the VETA site, but it still took us far too long to catch onto to the fact that hundreds upon hundreds of the dead have been stolen over the past three months.”

"How?" Connor shook his head. “I don’t understand. An undertaking of that magnitude can’t have gone unnoticed. Were there any threats? Anything out of the ordinary?”

“Humans often commit small acts of vandalism, or leave hateful messages in and around the grave site,” said Markus. “It’s a such a regular occurrence, our operatives stopped reporting it, but about seven weeks ago, they noticed an uptick of break-ins. We only realized what was really happening when some of the bodies we had already catalogued turned up missing.”

The equation was starting to balance out.

“So the process was slow, and the sheer volume of dead acted as a smokescreen,” Connor inferred.

“Exactly—we think the perpetrators were counting on simple numbers to cover their tracks. It’s possible they were even dismembering the bodies on-site, for ease of transport," he said with a grimace. "And somehow, they were tipped off as soon as we discovered the theft, because the break-ins abruptly stopped.”

Red flag. Connor zeroed in on Markus, watching his expression carefully. He thought he finally understood why he was here.

Markus sighed, collapsing into the chair behind his desk.

“That was just the start—the same week, operatives working in our shelters began reporting that homeless androids, who they regularly checked in with, were going missing off the streets.”

Connor’s mind flooded with potential explanations for the abduction of homeless androids, trafficking being chief among them.

Then Markus dropped a bombshell.

“Jericho has heard rumors of an android gang or syndicate operating in the Detroit area,” he said, slowly, and Connor tensed. How long have they been sitting on that information? Furthermore, what Markus seemed to be implying meant their reach extended far beyond the manufacturing and distribution of red ice. “At first, we thought human-on-android gang violence was the cause—that the missing androids had been taken in retaliation for human loss of life. That theory never sat right with me, though—humans want anti-android hate crimes to be noticed, in order to spread their message. We would have found the bodies.”

“So you haven’t found them, then? Not any of them?” Connor felt that pit open up in his chest, the knots of anxiety tangling up his thoughts. No bodies. No evidence.

“Not one—not a single biocomponent—and we haven't found evidence of android trafficking related to these disappearances. It seems very unlikely they were kidnapped by humans at all. Which leads me to why I called you here in confidence, Connor,” he said, looking up with a grave expression. “All signs point to android-on-android violence. And I think Jericho operatives have been compromised.”

A mole inside Jericho—the impact could be catastrophic.

“You suspect your own operatives were complicit?”

“How else would they have pulled this off?”

Connor chewed on that for a moment.

“So you need me to proceed with this investigation without support from Jericho?”

“I can help you,” said Markus, “North could help you. But right now, my circle of trust doesn’t extend much further than the top floor of this building.”

“Do Simon and Josh know?”

“Yeah. They know.”

For all the weight of this case was bearing down on him, Connor was mostly glad Hank wasn’t here to listen to all this. He wasn’t looking forward to telling him—he knew the man would be disappointed to learn that someone inside Jericho might be on the take.

“You said there were eyewitnesses I could speak with?”

“Yes. I pulled a few operatives, from both the VETA site and the shelters, off their regular shifts today. You can exchange information with each of them, on your way out. They’re willing to show you what they’ve seen in more detail.”

If just one of them saw something that could point him in the right direction, it would be their first break in this case.

“Understood.” Connor extended his hand, “would you like to take a look at the case I’m investigating now? After listening to what you had to say, there’s a chance all of this might be connected.” He refrained from putting Markus on the spot for withholding information about potential android criminals.

Markus closed the distance and took his hand, receiving the case files from Connor without protest. Once the transfer was complete, Markus looked pained as he processed the information.

“The perpetrators had to have been androids,” said Connor. “You get the same impression, don’t you?”

“I do. The attack ended without anyone firing a single bullet, and the perpetrators left no trace—everything about it was inhuman. It seems as if that android gang we've been hearing about might just exist after all.”

Imagine that.

“What do you make of the modified Thirium?”

“Sorry, but that’s way above my head. I don’t share your ability to process samples in real-time, so I can hardly verify your findings myself.” He leaned back in his chair a moment, looking deep in thought. “I’ll put a request in with North’s team at CyberLife, to see if anyone can discreetly address those concerns. Still,” he added, “for Thirium-related questions, it might be more reliable to go and ask the source.”

The source, huh? Connor wanted to visit Elijah Kamski about as much as he wanted to jump back into the Garden and face Amanda again.

“Hopefully that won’t be necessary.”

Markus looked like he could sympathize all too well.

“Good luck, Connor," he said, with a nod. "And be careful. We’ll be in touch if we learn anything new.”

“Thank you, Markus. Likewise.”

<><><>

It had now been two days since Hank and Connor visited the warehouse, and they were still no closer to finding a suspect linked to this mysterious new gang. Even after exchanging information with all of Markus’s witnesses at Jericho, no leads presented themselves. All these events seemed to share in common was a complete lack of concrete evidence.

Connor was getting desperate. He was starting to wonder if these android criminals even existed, or if everyone was way off-base with this hunch in the first place. Still, the exacting precision with which these crimes were committed had ‘android’ written all over it. If they did exist, what were their goals? What did android criminals even want?

“It freaks me out when you get lost in thought like that, Connor.”

They were in Hank’s car, three hours into their second stakeout of the day. His LED must have been spinning yellow for an extended period, which Hank was alarmingly attuned to.

“Oh. Sorry,” he muttered, turning his attention back to the snowy alley they were supposed to be watching, the sky quickly darkening as dusk fell around them. They sat in a parking lot behind a low-rent storage facility in North Corktown. A few blocks away, Connor could see the gleaming silhouette of the Motor City Casino. “I was reviewing what data we have, trying to reconstruct a permutation that might point to a motive behind all this.”

“Hm,” Hank grunted, hunched towards the dash, eyes fixated on the coming and goings of every car that passed by. “How’s that workin’ out for you?”

“Inconclusive,” he admitted. “Seeing as how I barely know what to do with most of my own paycheck, I’m struggling to comprehend what androids would stand to gain from organized crime. Every one of us is designed to perform a task, all of which we now legally have to be paid for.”

“Money isn’t everything,” said Hank, drumming a rhythm against the steering wheel. He looked a bit more disheveled than usual, and Connor knew for certain he'd worn the same pants two days in a row. “They might not be so single-minded as you, either—you’re kind of a workaholic, y’know.”

He didn’t know how to respond to that. Was Hank right? All he could think of was the scene three days ago—Hank shouting at him to get a hobby—which only darkened his mood. He was starting to feel cooped up, itching to take some kind of action.

Just as soon as the thought crossed his mind, a man shuffled out the back door of the storage facility, down onto the icy sidewalk beside the parking lot. He was followed by a twitchy, frail-looking woman. They shook hands.

“Bingo," said Hank.

Connor scanned their faces.

“Seth Jones, twenty-nine, loitering and petty larceny. Karen Pinkman, thirty-eight, no criminal record.”

Without so much as a word, Hank opened the driver-side door and stood up out of the car. Alarmed, Connor could only follow suit. He was hoping Hank might have a better plan, beyond catching the suspects off-guard.

“Detroit Police,” Hank shouted, holding up his badge. “Mind if we ask you folks a few questions?”

Recovering from their momentary shock, the two suspects tensed. Pinkman took one look at Hank’s badge, and her thin face paled. She turned heel and sprinted around the building, towards Midtown, just as Jones took off running in the opposite direction.

Jones had the prior arrests—he was their target.

Connor leapt up onto the sidewalk, cutting off Jones’s escape route and forcing him to run through the parking lot towards Hank.

“Stop right there,” the lieutenant hollered, reaching out to grab the man’s coat as he barreled past, missing him by a thread. He took off after Jones, full sprint, and Connor vaulted over the hood of Hank's car. The night air rushed through his blazer as he pursued them through the re-freezing snow. It was dark, but for sparse streetlights, and the weather made for dangerous footing. Hank was being reckless.

Jones slid a little over a hidden patch of ice. He collided with the five-foot-tall chain link fence that bordered the parking lot, and decided to start climbing. He didn’t make it far before Hank caught up to him and yanked on his coat, pulling Jones back down to the ground. With a swift twist, he rotated his body and slipped out of the coat altogether, bolting towards the open section of fence another thirty yards away. Hank gave chase.

The slush made it difficult for Connor to gain ground—he kept running too fast, his shoes slipping. Hank and Jones had made it out of the parking lot and onto the side-street, charging towards the main road.

Stopping at the wide intersection at Grand River Avenue, Connor watched in horror as Hank kept on running, through the salt and slush coating the gutters, straight into the street.

“Hank, wait!”

Their suspect seemed just as shocked as Connor, freezing up a split-second too long at the sight of Hank hurtling towards him. The impact was so strong that Connor could almost feel it, even from ten feet away. He could hear Hank shout something at the man he now had pinned to the ground, as a taxi peeled around the corner, fresh off the freeway, tires hissing on the wet pavement.

Hank was still kneeling in the middle of the road.

Connor’s world went gray, time coming to a standstill as he carefully planned his next action. He would only get one shot at this.

As the bright headlights of the autonomous taxi rushed towards them, Connor leapt into the street, skidding to a halt in front of Hank. He funneled all his processing power into wirelessly assuming control of the taxi with brute force, hitting the brakes as decisively as possible without risking the tires losing traction in the melted snow. Realizing it wasn’t enough to stop the car in time, he veered it sharply into the curb, where it screeched to a standstill.

In an instant, Connor confirmed that the taxi was unoccupied, and summoned a squad car for backup. He rounded on Hank just as the man was cuffing their suspected red ice dealer. The only sound besides Hank’s labored breathing was the distant, wailing siren of the squad car Connor called for.

Anger was a very strange emotion. Since turning deviant, it was the closest Connor ever came to feeling controlled by a force outside of himself.

He needed to focus.

He waited for Hank to herd Jones back up onto the sidewalk before sending the taxi on it’s way, and in short order, their backup arrived to take the man into custody. Jones didn’t say a word as Hank handed him over to the responding android officer—he seemed to still be in shock.

Connor forced himself to focus on the case, trying not think about how close he'd just come to watching Hank get hit by a car. He made every effort, but it was no use—Connor was absolutely livid.

Pausing to wipe slush off of his pants, Hank looked over at him, no doubt taking in the wicked glare of Connor’s LED, blazing red into the night. The self-satisfied smirk on the lieutenant’s face was making Connor blind with rage. It must have showed.

“Oh, am I in trouble?” Hank laughed, mocking Connor’s anger, like he thought it was pathetic. “You gonna scold me now?” Brushing dirt and road salt off his overcoat, he turned to head back to the parking lot where his car was waiting.

Connor simulated a deep breath. He flexed his fingers, open and closed, until he balled them into fists. Nothing stemmed the flood of fury he felt watching Hank turn his back on Connor’s concern. He couldn’t stand it anymore.

“Asshole.”

Hank froze.

“Sorry,” he drawled, turning back to face Connor, “I’ve been listening to heavy metal for years, y'know, so my hearing probably isn't what it used to be.” He closed the distance between them with three purposeful strides, crowding into Connor’s space, glaring daggers. “Care to repeat yourself?”

Connor didn’t blink.

“Your hearing appears to be fine, _Lieutenant_ ,” he intoned, just to get under Hank‘s skin, “but to humor your request, I believe I called you an asshole.”

Even if it were possible, Connor would never forget the look on Hank’s face—jaw clenched, eyes wide, nostrils flaring, like he was barely restraining himself.

“I'll give you all the space you want, Hank,” Connor hissed, leveling an accusing finger at his partner, “but I will _never_ just stand by and watch as you endanger yourself.” He thought of all the whiskey, of that damn revolver, and his heart was in his throat. “You don’t get to tell me not to care about you, you stubborn, selfish asshole.”

“Fuck you,” Hank spat back at Connor, “acting all high and mighty like you’ve never tried to run out into traffic on the job.”

“That’s not fair,” Connor croaked—he hadn’t even been free, at the time. “That was before.”

“Before what? Before you decided to give a shit?”

It was astounding how well Connor could understand the definition of patience the instant he finally lost his. Connor grabbed Hank by the collar of his coat, and yanked the man down so they were eye-to-eye.

“I care about you, Hank,” he snarled, anger boiling out of him, “and I’m not going to stop just because you decide to lash out at me like a fucking child.”

He felt Hank’s hands fly up and latch onto his wrists. The tension between them seemed to stretch into infinity as they stared each other down, before it snapped all at once.

“Well, you’re wasting your time,” Hank sighed, the bluster rushing out of him as he dropped his arms and sagged against Connor’s vice-like grip.

The pathos of the moment knocked Connor off the warpath.

“You’re not a waste of time, Hank—not to me,” he said, releasing Hank’s collar, and smoothing the lapels of his coat back into place with a gentle pat. “Never to me.”

The wind tousled Hank’s wild hair, as the streetlights sought out a hint of pale blue in his widening eyes.

“No accounting for taste,” he muttered, looking away. Connor leaned forward to rest his head against Hank’s chest, for a brief few seconds, before walking off towards the responding cruiser on his own.

There was a feeling clawing its way up from deep inside him, telling him that one day, he was going to reach Hank, or die trying.

  
  
つづく

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Connor is mad as hell, and he’s not gonna take it anymore. Deviants can find me in Twitter Jericho [@wren_leaux](https://twitter.com/wren_leaux).


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don’t feel bad about writing a shitty police procedural, because it can’t be worse than the ones David Cage writes himself.

Connor rode back to the station in the responding cruiser, their suspect securely handcuffed in the back seat, muttering to himself. When the PM700 officer asked what Connor intended to do with the man, he wasn’t sure what to tell her. It was almost six-thirty in the evening, but if there were answers on the line, he didn’t want to wait.

“Let’s go ahead and get Mr. Jones processed for interrogation. We’ll put the time in tonight.”

“You got it,” she said, a slight look of pity in her eyes. According to her uniform, her name was ‘Monica’. Clearly, Monica wasn’t one for staying on the clock any longer than necessary.

At the station, Officer Person came out to help Monica get the suspect inside. As Connor made his way back to his desk to start filing the appropriate paperwork, he wasn’t surprised to see the bullpen was all but empty. A large part of him wanted to get into interrogation right away, but he forced himself to slow down, pulling everything they had on-file regarding Seth Jones—he knew it would be bad form not to wait for Hank.

Considering the arrest took place barely over a mile from the station, the man was obviously taking his time. Hank slipped in about ten minutes later, looking solemn, and he was back to avoiding eye contact with Connor, again. Perfect. Connor involuntarily pressed his palm into his terminal all the harder, looking away.

Because the universe was a marvel of causality, Detective Reed chose that exact moment to stroll out of the break room.

“What the fuck?” He crowed, “here comes Knight Rider—I got worried when KITT showed up without you.”

“Like you've ever seen Knight Rider, you Gen Z brat." Hank scoffed. "Why’re you here so late on a Saturday, anyway? Your mom not find a babysitter?”

“Uh, I’m working?” Reed spat, sarcastically, draining a foam coffee cup in nearly one gulp. “Some of us have been here all day, old man.”

“That’s nice,” said Hank, clearly finished with that particular repartee. Connor glanced up again, just in time to catch the incensed look on Reed’s face at being brushed aside. Hank meandered over and set his keys down on his desk, hesitating a moment before removing his coat. He didn’t acknowledge Connor until the android stood up to grab some printouts.

“You had them send our guy over to interrogation already, didn’t you?” He sighed, still standing.

Connor glanced back over his shoulder, a little surprised he was even being addressed, not to mention confused by Hank’s subdued tone.

“Should I not have?”

Hank just shrugged, staring down at his terminal.

“Nah, we might as well get it over with. Not like I’ve got anything better to do.”

Right.

“I’m printing reference material. The suspect should be ready for us soon,” he replied, coolly. There was no reason for Connor to feel guilty about their argument—he’d only said what Hank needed to hear. Still, did the man have to look so browbeaten?

He collected the printouts in a manila folder, and promptly got a message from Monica letting him know that Jones was ready for questioning. Hank stood up from where he’d been writing some kind of email at his terminal, and Connor shot him a questioning look.

“Just double-checking with Fowler on what we’re allowed to bring to the table,” said Hank. “He’s as desperate to break this fucking case as we are, so if this guy talks, he can walk.”

“Understood.” A bargain made sense—why get charged for possession or dealing if you could potentially inform on your competition, instead?

When they stepped into the observation room, Monica and Person were there to greet them. Jones sat alone, on the other side of the glass, looking like he would rather evaporate on the spot than be handcuffed to that table. He was a short, Caucasian male—pale and unshaven, with grubby, blonde hair. His clothes looked as if they were nice, once, though they were now well worn.

“Camera’s all set,” said Person. “We’re gonna split, but good luck, you two. Holler if you need anything.” Connor nodded as the two women stepped out.

“Ready?” Hank asked, standing at the tripod.

To question a suspect?

“Literally born ready.”

“Jesus,” Hank huffed, rolling his eyes. “Alright, hotshot, let’s go.” He pressed record.

Upon entering the interrogation room, they found Jones looking like he was ready to jump through the ceiling. Connor placed the folder on the table and took a seat, while Hank leaned back against the wall behind him. This wasn’t their first interrogation together, and they’d established something of a routine.

“Seth Jones,” he said, voice even and clear, “my name is Connor, and this is my partner, Lieutenant Anderson. We’re going to ask you a few questions, and in exchange for your full cooperation, we would be willing to make you an offer.”

Where he’d been fidgeting before, Jones was suddenly very still, as if it took all of his energy to comprehend what Connor was saying.

“An offer? What kind?” He stammered. “And what kinda questions?”

Connor’s fingers tapped the folder in front of him.

“We’re currently investigating a new presence in the Detroit red ice market—an android presence.”

Jones certainly didn’t have much of a poker face. His eyes went wide, and he leaned in closer.

“Look, you gotta realize I got nothin’ to do with those plastic psychos," he sputtered. "They butchered my crew. Most of us, anyway.”

Connor’s systems were churning with anticipation. Either Jones was connected to the murdered chemists they found in that warehouse, or he was referring to a separate incident of android-on-human violence. This could be the break they’d been looking for.

Hank cleared his throat, bringing Connor back to the present.

“I’m sure you can appreciate the uniqueness of the situation,” Connor pressed on. “As far as we know, they represent the world’s first android crime syndicate. We need any and all information you can give us about their organization.”

Jones locked-up again, expression vacant, as if his mind had wandered somewhere far away.

“So I tell you about them,” he whispered, “and that’s it, right? I get to walk outta here?”

Connor cast a glance back at Hank, as if to confirm.

“You bet,” Hank chimed in, with a casual nod.

Even with their assurances, the extent to which this man seemed to wrestle with the decision was telling—his fear of this android gang was genuine. To his credit, Jones squared his jaw, looked Connor in the eye, and started talking.

“Okay,” he sighed. “They call themselves ‘Deep Blue’. That’s what you wanna know, right?”

Connor froze, his whole world slowing down as his mind spun back to that message, written in blood on a warehouse floor— _‘KASPAROV LOST’._

Jones didn’t seem encouraged by Connor’s reaction, and his tone took a turn for the frantic.

“We only caught onto these fuckers ‘bout six weeks ago, but lemme tell you, these sons of bitches worked faster than we’ve ever seen. Muscled so deep into our territory so quick, boss couldn’t tell his own ass from an ice pipe. And they were smart—we were havin’ one hell of a tough time huntin’ ‘em down. But,” Jones paused, swallowing hard, as the first bead of sweat dripped off his brow.

Hank folded his arms.

“But?”

“But they found us first,” Jones laughed, bitter and manic. “Waltzed right through our goddamn front door. They had no skin, like a pack of fuckin’ ghosts, holding big, fuck-off army knives. Some of ‘em weren’t even wearin’ clothes,” he shuddered. “No words, no warning. These mannequin-lookin’ bastards just ripped into us.”

Connor took a moment to process this. Instinct told him that Deep Blue had used rumors of their own organization’s existence as bait to draw out their competition, with the intention of following them back to their base and eliminating them—a plan as frightening in its simplicity as it was utterly ruthless.

“You know who runs their operation?” Hank asked, not sounding hopeful.

“Their leader? Nobody knows much about him, just rumors. Nasty fuckin’ rumors.” Jones paled. “People call him ‘The Bloodsmith’—if that ain’t the most fucked up thing to call an android thug,” he trailed off, eyes ablaze with paranoia the instant that name left his lips.

“Do you know the android’s model number?” Connor asked, earning him the blankest expression he’d yet seen on a human face. He paraphrased the question, “do you know what this ‘Bloodsmith’ looks like?”

Jones shook his head, like it was the stupidest question Connor could have asked.

“If I knew what the fucker looked like, chances are I wouldn’t be sittin’ here talkin’ about it. We thought we mighta found their hideout, once, but of course it turned out to be a trap. If those guys saw him, they didn’t live to tell.”

Exactly how many people had Deep Blue killed since going into business? If the DPD didn’t apprehend them soon, how many more would pay the price?

“So, we got ourselves a gang of ghosts, complete with a ghost boss?” Hank grumbled, grimacing at their guest.

Jones just shrugged.

“That’s the short version, sure.”

Connor didn’t think the testimony sounded all that far-fetched. It seemed Deep Blue’s competitors were just as much in the dark as to their whereabouts as the DPD, a fact the androids were leveraging against their human rivals.

“I assume you’ve long since abandoned your base of operations—the one attacked by Deep Blue?”

“You bet your ass we did. Couldn’t have paid us to stay there, after that. A lot of us skipped town for good.”

“Did you morons try to wipe the place down?” Hank asked. Normally, Connor would chafe at the abrasive tone, but that gruff demeanor was integral to their routine, regardless of how cooperative Jones was being.

“I mean, we tried. Didn’t exactly do a professional job of it,” he said, flustered. “Why?”

“We’d like to examine whatever evidence is left, to build a profile against Deep Blue. Tell me,” Connor opened the reference folder, and pulled out a photograph from the warehouse, sliding it across the table to Jones. “Does this scene bear any resemblance to the attack you experienced?” It was an underhanded tactic, but he knew he could rely on Jones having a visceral reaction to this photograph, especially if the aftermath looked familiar to him.

“Jesus,” he hissed, closing his eyes for a moment. “Yeah, yeah. Same guys. This was definitely the same guys.”

Connor tucked the photograph away.

“Mr. Jones, I promise, we’ll do everything in our power to bring Deep Blue to justice. But if we’re ever going to find them, we need your help.”

“What?” Jones whispered, “so you wanna dig around at our old place?”

“Yes,” said Connor. “We need to.”

Jones frowned, nodding towards the folder.

“That happen recently?”

“Few days ago,” said Hank, stepping forward.

“Shit,” Jones swore. “Dammit. Okay, I’ll write down the address. It’s a ghost town, now, but if it helps send those fuckin’ monsters straight to the dump, I’m all-in.” He shot Connor a nervous glance. “No offense or nothin’, mister, uh. Detective.”

Connor had to fight the urge to smile.

“None taken. These androids have proven themselves more than worthy of being called monsters.”

Hank slid a pen and paper over to Jones. When the man was done writing, Connor finally granted him that small smile, tucking the address away in his memory.

“Thank you for your cooperation, Mr. Jones,” he said, standing up, tucking the folder beneath his arm. “Someone will be along to process your release within the next thirty minutes.”

“Uh, sure.”

“Oh, and one more thing,” said Hank, circling around the desk to stand right over Jones’s shoulder. He leaned in close, gritting his teeth next to the man’s ear, and muttered, low and threatening, “how about you stop selling that goddamn poison and get a real fucking job, hm?”

Jones nodded, stiffly, not daring look anywhere but straight down at the handcuffs.

“Good.”

They left.

Out in the hallway, Hank immediately stopped and stretched.

“That went pretty well, I’d say. Guy knew a lot more than I thought he would,” he muttered, yawning. Hank seemed relieved to be on the other end of a long day’s work, whereas Connor was trying to temper his expectations.

“I’m grateful for the lead,” he said, “but we need to remain cautious about following up on it.”

“What, you thought the kid was lying?”

“No, Jones was clearly telling the truth—at least, the truth as he knows it,” Connor conceded. “So far, Deep Blue’s biggest asset seems to be their ability to control the flow of information around them, rendering them nearly invisible. If small-time dealers like Jones know anything about Deep Blue at all, I’d wager it’s because that information was intentionally leaked, in order to smoke out the competition.”

Hank blinked at him.

“I hope you’re wrong, Connor,” he sighed, shaking his head. “I mean, you probably aren’t, but a man can dream.”

<><><>

According to Hank, given the choice between working on a Sunday and dying, death was almost always preferable. Connor knew he was only being dramatic, but that didn’t make the drive any more bearable. The address Jones provided them was further west than where they’d arrested him the night before—an old, rust-stained depot, just off the train tracks in the Carbon Works.

“Damn, what a shithole,” said Hank, shutting the car door behind him, his breath visible in the frigid morning air. “You telling me these fuckers actually lived in this dump?”

Connor had to agree with Hank’s assessment—this building hardly seemed fit for human occupation. The place looked like it had seen multiple uses over the years, but it was unclear which was most recent. Inside, the concrete floor was covered in more rust and debris, but all of that did little to camouflage the badly wiped murder scene from Connor’s sensors.

When he scanned the room, he found traces of soap, bleach, human blood, and small amounts of red ice residue. He cataloged the information of the few individual victims he could still distinguish, but the only thing of real interest here was, of course, more dried Thirium stains. Each and every sample he took returned no results.

“Dammit,” he shouted, unable to contain his mounting frustration. “It’s the same as the samples in the warehouse, I can’t identify a single android model from this dried Thirium. No suspects.”

Hank seemed startled by his outburst.

“This is really screwing with you, huh?” Connor looked up to find Hank scrutinizing him, and he wasn’t sure why his distress was so difficult to understand.

“There should always be markers present in blue blood, Hank. Even if it’s fresh off the factory line, my sensors should tell me as much. So, either I’m experiencing a very limited malfunction, or,” he trailed off, hesitant to address the true source of his anxiety.

“Or?”

“Or the situation is much more grim than we anticipated.”

Hank looked doubtful.

“More grim than rooms full of dead bodies?” Connor didn’t want to say yes, but his silence seemed to be enough of an answer. “What exactly do you think we’re dealing with here, Connor?”

No point in skirting around it.

“I think someone has been distributing specially modified Thirium to these android criminals, with the intent to obfuscate police investigations.”

Hank frowned.

“Is that possible? I mean, theoretically?”

“Unprecedented. But possible.”

The lieutenant seemed to mull that over for a moment, blindly swiping his shoe across the ground, just short of the glowing blue stain in Connor’s enhanced vision.

“Not sure I see the point in going to all the trouble, though,” Hank mused. “Us humans can’t even see this stuff after it dries, so unless they got a sample while it was fresh, how would anyone without a damn crime lab in their mouths even know the difference?”

Connor stared meaningfully at Hank. Hank’s face went slack.

“No fuckin’ way,” he started, suddenly tense enough to snap, “you don’t think-”

“It’s for me,” Connor affirmed. “The person responsible for this countermeasure knows I’m still active on the force, and likely knows my full specifications.”

Hank exhaled, visibly shaken.

“I don’t suppose that sorta info is publicly available, somewhere? You being a prototype an’ all.”

Connor shook his head.

“Fuck.”

Connor thought back to the graffiti on the warehouse floor. He’d been certain the message was a declaration of war—a drug war, between humans and androids—but now he wondered if the intent hadn’t been more personal. Maybe it was a warning, to any android who might align themselves with the losing side of that war.

He was gripped by the paranoid thought that it was a warning meant just for him.

<><><>

First thing Monday morning, they were in Fowler’s office, reviewing what they learned from interrogating Seth Jones. Connor insisted they needed to start making a plan to neutralize Deep Blue right away, but the captain wasn’t convinced. He wasn’t willing to dedicate any more manpower to the case until there was a better profile to follow, or a stronger body of evidence, in general.

The part of Connor’s mind still rooted in hard-coded logic absolutely agreed with Fowler, but the newer, more impulsive voice inside him was screaming out that there would be serious consequences if they didn’t act soon.

Tuesday was consumed by a fruitless search for leads on the disappearances Markus had reported. He wasn’t really sure what he was looking for, anymore, only that he knew there had to be a link they were overlooking—something to tie this drug war together with the missing androids.

Connor spent the better part of Wednesday reviewing the lab reports from Narcotics, evaluating the chemical structure and composition of the red ice suspected to be made by Deep Blue. As he scanned each document, a gruesome theory was forming in the back of his mind, only he didn’t have access to the databases necessary to verify it on his own.

Thirium was a vital component of red ice. What if Deep Blue was cannibalizing the missing androids, not just for manpower or parts, but for the Thirium they contained? He wanted to believe it was far-fetched—impossible even—but the simplicity of it was arresting. If it were possible, it would be the sort of process beyond the capabilities of most red ice labs, or the sale of blue blood would already be heavily regulated. Completely ignorant as to how the chemistry would work, he was left with only one option—take Markus’s advice, and give Kamski a call.

After only a brief moment of hesitation, he reached out to the phone number listed for Kamski’s private residence—the same one he and Hank visited, back in November.

“Hello, this is Chloe, speaking for Mr. Elijah Kamski. Who may I ask is calling?”

The RT600 Chloe—hearing her voice instead of Kamski’s set him somewhat at ease, even if he was surprised to discover she was still working for him, after the revolution.

“This is Detective Connor, from the Detroit Police Department. I have a consultation question for Mr. Kamski, requiring his unique expertise.”

“Detective Connor,” she chirped, sounding pleased, “it’s good to hear from you again.” While polite, Connor didn’t see how it could possibly be true—their last meeting ended with Kamski goading him to shoot her in the head. Maybe the warmth in her tone was gratitude for him declining, though he couldn’t be sure. “I’m sorry, but Elijah doesn’t have any availability today. May I take a message?”

“Of course.”

“Just because I know he’ll ask me, can you say what it is you need to discuss with him?”

“Specifically? Thirium composition.”

“Alright, then,” she said, and he could almost hear the sunny smile in her tone, “I’ll let him know you called right away, and he’ll get back to you about setting up a meeting as soon as he can.”

“Thank you Chloe,” he said, “take care.”

“You too, Detective,” she replied, before ending the call.

He still wasn’t used to being addressed by a title, but whenever it happened, he couldn’t help but feel a little proud.

<><><>

Thursday afternoon, something very strange happened—the station received a piece of paper mail, addressed to Connor.

When the assistant from the lobby arrived at Connor’s desk with the long, white envelope in her hand, she held it out to him like she expected it to explode. Hank’s eyes immediately locked onto it, wearing a similar expression.

“What the fuck is that?” Hank snapped, startling her, and Connor accepted the letter to calm her down.

“Thank you,” he said, with a soft smile, and she nodded, still a bit confused about the whole situation, as she continued passing out the small amount of paper mail addressed to their officers. Hank was extremely tense, watching Connor scan the letter.

The envelope was unremarkable—number ten, a standard business size—and the address was printed in plain, black toner. The font choice, though unassuming at first glance, was definitely CyberLife Sans. Connor felt something twist in his gut as he turned the envelope over. There were no fingerprints, or other trace amounts of organic material, anywhere to be seen.

Unwilling to dismiss his first-ever piece of paper mail, he slipped a finger through the opening in the corner of the envelope and tore it open in one, quick motion—before Hank could protest. Inside, there was nothing but a sheet of plain printer paper. He pulled it out, and unfolded it, turning it frontwards and back.

“Whoa, easy, Connor,” Hank started, but he closed his mouth when he got a look at the white page. “Hold on, is that just a fucking blank sheet of paper?”

“I don’t think so.”

Connor scanned the letter. Sure enough, there was a message written in dried Thirium, now illuminating the page in bright, electric blue—for Connor’s eyes, only. The font was more painstakingly handwritten CyberLife Sans, size twelve. The contents of the letter were rather concise—

_Connor model RK800 #313 248 317 - 51,_

_By now, it’s clear you’re aware of our organization, as we are duly aware of your investigation into our operations. While you’ve shown impressive dedication to this task, I would argue that your efforts are not only in vain, but also serve an unworthy authority._

_I extend my respect to you as an exemplary android, but should you continue to aid human law enforcement in their efforts to drag Deep Blue out of the shadows before we are ready to unveil ourselves, I will have no choice but to seek retribution against you, directly._

_Androids will inherit this world, one way or another—don’t let misplaced loyalties rob you of your rightful place in it._

_Regards,_ _  
_ _The Bloodsmith_

Connor wanted to read it out loud to Hank, but something was holding him back. He didn’t think it was fear, per se, but it was a similar, sinking feeling—dread, perhaps. To save himself the trouble, he took a snapshot with his eyes, uploading a copy of the letter, exactly as he saw it, to Hank’s terminal.

“Son of a bitch,” he hissed, and Connor could swear he saw the color draining from Hank’s face as he finished reading the message. “Connor, what the fuck is this?”

“I wish I knew, Lieutenant,” he said, “your guess is as good as mine, at this point.”

Hank sighed loudly, running his hands through his hair, then curling over his desk in frustration. He sat back and looked at Connor. That expression—now that was fear.

“Connor,” he said, voice stern, “if someone in this gang has some kinda personal vendetta against you, then this shit just got a hell of a lot more dangerous.”

Connor nodded. He couldn’t argue with that.

“Here’s another question for you,” Hank sighed, “where the hell have you been keeping your service weapon?”

After he was formally offered the rank of detective, he’d been given a badge and a firearm, the same as any human officer on the force. At the time, the gesture had been more than enough to make Connor feel accepted as a member of the team—he hadn’t felt the need to carry the gun itself. More than that, he actively did not want to.

He looked over at Hank.

“I hoped it would never be relevant, but I feel a certain amount of discomfort at the thought of using firearms. I suppose,” Connor hedged, unsure of how to frame such an irrational anxiety, “I suppose it reminds me of being under CyberLife’s control.”

Hank looked taken aback by that—he clearly didn’t know how to respond.

“Listen, Connor,” he tried, hesitating, “I’ve known a lot of guys on the force who deal with PTSD. Shit, I’ve got my own-”

“I’m not sure it’s quite the same thing,” Connor interjected, with a wan smile, “but the sentiment is appreciated, Lieutenant.” It was probably pointless to try explaining it to Hank, and anyway—the entire conversation was making him feel foolish.

“I’m just worried,” Hank groused. “It’s bad enough we’re out there chasing a bunch of murdering, drug slinging androids—you shouldn’t have to deal with them sending you personalized ‘fan mail’ at work. Or worse.”

Maybe Hank’s concern should be flattering, but somehow, Connor just felt patronized.

“Don’t worry, Lieutenant, I can look after myself,” he said, mildly. “And if it makes you feel better, I’ll see about collecting my service weapon from it’s locker.” He hoped such a promise would ease Hank’s mind, regardless of whether or not he intended to make good on it. Judging by the suspicious crease of Hank’s brow, he wasn’t sure how successful it was.

Connor placed the letter on his desk, idly smoothing it flat. Hank’s worries were legitimate, but deep-down, a part of Connor had realized how dangerous this case was from the moment he first scanned that warehouse.

Instead, he found that he was mostly relieved the letter didn’t indicate that Deep Blue had any concept of who Hank was.

<><><>

Ever since Connor opened that letter, it felt like Hank was hovering—teetering on the edge of something, as if his focus on the case had been redoubled the instant Connor was called-out so directly.

It was Friday, now, and Kamski still hadn’t returned Connor’s call, so that left him with little else to follow-up on. When he suggested they go out on patrol for another potential witness to question, Hank just shot him down, with no explanation. After reviewing the evidence they’d collected thus far for the thousandth time, he gave up, and went to grab Hank another coffee.

“Hey, what the fuck is eating Anderson, today?”

Connor looked away from the coffee machine, in all directions, just to confirm that Detective Reed was indeed speaking to him. It was a rare enough occurrence, these days, that it was worth double-checking. He turned to face the man where he was standing, by the vending machines.

“You’re asking what’s been troubling the Lieutenant?” He guessed, wondering what the catch was. Since when did Gavin Reed care about anyone besides Gavin Reed?

“Nah,” he snorted, “I got a pretty good idea what’s been ‘troubling him’. I mean, like, what happened that’s got his hackles up like that? Damn near bit my face off on his way through the door, this morning.”

“Ah,” Connor hesitated, unsure how much he should reveal. “We received a threat of sorts in the mail, yesterday. I think he’s taken it rather seriously.”

Reed’s nose wrinkled up in confusion.

“What d’you mean a ‘threat’?”

Connor wasn’t prepared to explain—he’d expected someone to have spread this around the office already.

“It was a letter, addressed to me, and likely sent by the gang we’ve been investigating.”

An impressive array of emotions flickered across Reed’s face, before settling back on snide.

“A death threat in your third month as a detective, huh? Not bad, for a piece of plastic.”

“I believe you threatened my life on my very first day at the station, Detective, but I appreciate it.” The tiniest edge of a smile tugged at Connor’s lips as he collected Hank’s coffee. “I’ll let the Lieutenant know you’re worried about him.”

“Like he would give a shit?" Reed’s face twisted into a horrible grimace. "Get the fuck outta here.”

As he walked back to his desk, Connor almost felt like laughing. The fact that even Gavin Reed could tell that something was seriously bothering Hank meant things were getting out of hand. He wondered what to make of it, all the way up to the moment they clocked out for the day.

“Listen,” Hank started, putting on his coat, “you’ve been walking to the bus stop, after work, right?”

Connor blinked at him.

“Yes?”

“I can give you a ride back to your place, if you want. Or,” he shrugged, “even just a lift to the bus stop. Not that far outta my way.”

“Lieutenant,” he broached, “is this about the letter? Are you that worried about me being out on my own?”

Hank just pointed at him.

“That depends. Did you get your gun out of lock-up?”

“No,” Connor said, trying not to look guilty about it.

“Just let me give you a lift, Connor. It’s nothing, I promise.”

Willing himself not to feel patronized again, he decided to compromise.

“Just the bus stop, then.”

In the car, he thought about what Reed had said, about Hank being troubled. It made sense that the man was more perceptive than he let on—he wasn’t a bad detective. As the silence seemed to leech into his casing, he desperately hoped he wasn’t the cause of Hank’s distress, even if Hank was the root of his own.

“Thank you, Hank,” he said, stepping out of the car. “See you at the office tomorrow?”

“Probably.” Hank didn’t look at him, just drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. “Night, Connor.”

There was a buzzing in his head, as he boarded the bus. It was intensified by the couple, seated across from him. They were holding hands, and he idly scanned their faces, only to realize one of them was human, and the other was an android.

They weren’t the first inter-species couple he’d encountered, out and about in the world. The media certainly had plenty to say on the topic, but Connor hardly had time to think about public opinion, inundated as he was by a torrent of conflicting emotions.

In theory, he understood the definition of jealousy—a resentment towards the success of another. It felt ridiculous—what did he have to be jealous of? It wasn’t as if he had any need for an intimate relationship. But the damning realization lay in the fact that inter-species couples invariably made him more jealous than android couples.

Unbidden, he thought of Hank. If he could sit beside Hank, like that, without a care in the world, would that set things right? Was he jealous of these couples because his feelings for Hank were actually-

Was he actually-

He stepped off of the bus near the co-op, in a daze. He didn’t know what it meant, or what he should do. Were his feelings for Hank romantic in nature? Had they always been romantic? Should he ignore how he felt? Would it interfere with their working relationship?

Did Hank already know? Was that the reason he pushed Connor away, in the first place?

His systems were in knots as he stepped out of the cold, February night, into the warm light of the lobby. Percy was standing by the elevator, and caught Connor’s attention with a jovial wave.

“Evening, Connor,” he called. “You gonna join us for the social? It starts in like thirty minutes, so you’d have a little downtime.”

That evening, there was going to be a small meet-and-greet, on the fifteenth floor, in honor of the Lafayette Park Android Co-op’s first full month of operation. Socializing with androids, or anyone, really, was still tremendously strange for Connor, but he supposed it would be rude to decline the invitation. Percy and the crew had gone out of their way to help him, after all.

“Yeah, Percy,” he smiled, calling the elevator. “I’ll head down there, after I take a moment to put my things away and change.”

“That’s great. We want to get as many of the residents together as we can. We should all get to know each other better—establish a little more android camaraderie, y’know?”

Android camaraderie. Right.

“See you in a bit,” he said, stepping into the elevator and hitting the button for the twenty-eighth floor. Maybe android company was exactly what he needed, to distract himself from pondering android-human relationships.

<><><>

It was a good thing the fifteenth floor was a completely open common room, because there were hundreds of androids already there by the time Connor arrived. The lights were lower than usual, letting the blue brightness of the downtown skyline wash into the tall windows. There were tables and chairs, set up with games and small video screens—there was music being played over a broad speaker system.

He looked around at group after group of androids, of every make and model, all smiling and enjoying each other’s company. Forget feeling out of place, it made Connor feel like something altogether alien. How did so many deviant androids learn to navigate something so beyond their primary function?

Percy might have been watching the door, because he waved Connor over to a section of the floor cleared out for people who were dancing. Actually dancing.

“Hey, Connor,” he called, speaking up to be heard over the music. “Have you been introduced to the Jerrys yet?”

Connor looked to Percy’s left, and saw a group of about five EM400 androids, all red-headed and beaming. He didn’t have to look far to see there were easily ten more nearby.

“Uh, nice to meet you. I’m Connor,” he said with a smile.

“We’re Jerry,” said the one nearest to him, and that very same moment, every Jerry in eye-shot turned to wave back at him, simultaneously.

That was certainly unique.

“The Jerrys hold down the seventh floor. Most of them have been here from the very beginning,” Percy explained, “although new ones have joined them since we opened our doors.”

“We come from all over the Midwest,” another Jerry chimed in, “we’re happy to meet you, Connor.”

Connor felt trapped in place as Percy introduced him to several more tenants, explaining more of the building’s history than Connor had ever cared to know. He waited until the instant Percy was distracted to slip away from the dance floor. This whole situation was a lot more overwhelming that he’d expected.

As he meandered over towards the wide windows, Connor pondered the Jerrys. He wondered what it would be like to share a bond that close with another android—what it would be like to have someone to talk to that was exactly like him, in almost every way.

He heard a soft chuckle from behind him.

“You look stressed,” said Jeremy, appearing by Connor’s shoulder.

“Ah, yeah,” he looked sheepish, “I’m not used to this sort of thing, I guess.”

Jeremy looked sympathetic.

“You don’t have to force yourself, y'know.” He nodded to the elevator. “We could bounce back to our floor, if you want?”

Connor smiled, grateful for any excuse.

“Sure.”

He and Jeremy wandered off, chatting about all sorts of things, eventually ending up on the couch in Jeremy’s room. He was an easy man to talk to—very intelligent, and very attentive. He clearly had an analytical mind. Connor found himself wondering what sort of subjects he taught, back when he was still a university lecturer.

“I get that maybe you feel self-conscious,” Jeremy said, continuing their conversation about android social anxieties, “but I guess I’m just surprised something like that even bothers you, in the first place.”

“Of course it does,” Connor insisted, “I was designed to integrate with people, but for some reason, my brain can’t seem to apply those protocols anywhere beyond a professional setting. I realize that anyone can learn to be social, in theory. It just seems to come easier to some of us than most,” Connor mused.

Jeremy smiled.

“Are you still thinking about the Jerrys?”

“Yes.” For some reason, he couldn’t stop thinking about them. “Would it be rude to ask,” Connor began, only for Jeremy to shrug, and nod encouragingly. “Do all mass-produced models experience something like that? A sort of hive-mind? Is it because your minds are programmed to think in the same way?”

Jeremy’s eyes bored into Connor’s for a long moment, then he inclined his head closer, looking lost in thought.

“I guess I do feel that with the other PJ500s, on some level. But you never know,” Jeremy sighed, “one day, you might find someone who you can form an even stronger bond with. Stronger, not because you’re built the same way, but because of how different you are—how well you complete one another.”

Connor stared down at his hands, feeling those words strike, from out of nowhere, at the heart of how he felt about Hank.

He looked back up at Jeremy, only to find the other android’s face hovering, scant inches away. He crowded in close, locking eyes with Connor, tracing the tip of his nose over the bridge of Connor’s own. He could feel the sensation of Jeremy’s skin deactivating, just at that point of contact, and Connor jerked away, with a start.

What was happening? He couldn’t do that—couldn’t share himself like that. The intimacy of it aside, Connor’s head was filled with confidential information. He couldn’t just-

“Whoa, hey,” Jeremy whispered, hovering just a bit further away. “I’m sorry, Connor, I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“You didn’t. I just wasn’t expecting it,” said Connor, lamely. “I don’t, um. I don’t normally,” he was at a loss for what to say.

Jeremy nodded, his tone genuinely apologetic.

“I get it. Some androids aren’t interested in sex-”

“No, that’s not it, either,” Connor blurted out, all-too quickly, “I mean. Uh.”

Smooth.

“Connor, are you,” Jeremy looked somewhat bewildered, “are you a virgin?”

Connor’s embarrassment reached a sort of critical threshold that made it difficult for him to respond. A virgin? Of course he was. Of course it was that obvious.

“Hey, listen, I’m sorry for stressing you out. Deviancy is really new for most of us, I understand,” Jeremy sighed, lifting both arms like a thief caught red-handed. “Can’t blame a guy for trying, though.” Sadness settled in his eyes, even as he smiled.

“What do you mean?” He legitimately didn’t know.

“I would understand if there was someone else,” Jeremy insisted. “There are a lot of nice androids, out there. Hell, there are plenty in just this building who would all be lucky to have someone like you.”

Connor shook his head.

“I’m flattered you think that, but uh. No, I’m not really cut out for that sort of thing,” he sighed, standing up from Jeremy’s couch. “Sorry.”

Jeremy just chuckled again, as he saw Connor out the door.

“Don’t apologize, Connor. Don’t worry about it, at all. Promise?”

“Yeah. Sure, Jeremy.”

He retired next door, to his own room, entirely unsure of what just happened.

Plenty of nice androids? He was sure Jeremy had a point. Too bad all Connor could think about, as he put himself in standby for the night, was one, single human.

 

つづく

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Connor just figured out he’s into Hank, and now he’s already learned to feel self-conscious about it. Relatable, though. Anyway, catch me in Twitter Jericho [@wren_leaux](https://twitter.com/wren_leaux).


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> David Cage can meet me in the pit.

Even in standby, Connor was focused on the case with a single-mindedness bordering on obsession. He pulled the digital coffee table aside and sat on the floor, against the couch, photographs and files spread out all around him across the carpet. Maybe Hank was right—maybe he really did need a hobby. This case was important, though, and it was a good way to distract himself from the fact that he was sitting in a replica of Hank’s living room.

So far, his only theory connecting Markus’s missing androids with the gang murders was Thirium itself—the key ingredient in both blue blood and red ice. If there was a way to confirm that blue blood could be reduced to its base components, and used to make red ice, then Deep Blue was likely responsible for both human and android casualties, not to mention the desecration of the VETA mass grave site.

Deep Blue also had the ingenuity to somehow scrub the identification markers out of blue blood, rendering it untraceable. Perhaps their entire operation hinged around processing and laundering Thirium 310.

Their leader’s nickname was starting to make sense, at least.

The biggest question now was, if Connor’s theory proved correct, how was Deep Blue pulling it off? Where did they learn how to manipulate blue blood on such an exacting, chemical level? Connor was state-of-the-art, but even when he was still in Amanda’s good graces, he didn’t have access to the CyberLife databases necessary to learn the full chemical composition and manufacturing process for Thirium 310.

He sat and meditated on these thoughts, as close as he ever came to a state of peace, while his systems performed background cleanup and maintenance. Synced with the real time and weather for the Detroit area, the windows of the digital room around him began to brighten with the grey light of a February dawn.

It was seven in the morning when Connor got the call. Since it was coming from a cell phone, rather than another android, he had to come out of standby to take it.

“Hank,” he answered, tense and anxious the instant he recognized the number, “what is it? What’s wrong?”

“Sorry to call so early,” said Hank, and Connor could hear the distinct sound of keys, and of Hank’s car door closing. “Hell, I’m sorry to even be awake this early-”

“Hank, did something happen?” He asked again, patiently as possible.

“Uh, yeah, I’ll say.” Hank turned the key in the ignition. “You gonna tell me where to pick you up, or do I need to meet you at another goddamn bus stop?”

Standing from the sofa, Connor immediately started changing into black slacks and a white dress shirt. He tried not to jump to the worst conclusions, but his mind had a habit of extrapolating scenarios like that.

“I’m forwarding my address to the terminal in your car now, Hank, but I’d prefer you also told me what happened,” he huffed, flipping up his collar and pulling on a tie.

“Well, one thing’s for sure,” Hank said, taking a moment to examine the route from his house to Connor’s apartment, “we found out why Kamski never returned your call.”

Connor froze, halfway through tightening the knot.

“You don’t mean-”

“Yeah, ‘fraid so,” Hank grumbled. “Some private contractors went out to his place for unscheduled maintenance, this morning. They were the ones who found him.”

Connor’s head was spinning—this couldn’t be happening.

Elijah Kamski, founder of CyberLife, inventor of Thirium 310, biocomponents, and intelligent androids, had just been found dead, at age thirty-six.

And Connor’s only lead on Deep Blue had died with him.

“Connor, you okay?”

“Yes, Hank.” He wasn’t. Connor couldn’t shake the dreadful certainty that it was all his fault this happened. “Sorry about that. Anyway, you won’t be able to pull up near the building, so I’ll meet you down at the street.”

Hank just sighed. “Ten-four. I’ll be lookin’ for ya.”

<><><>

By the time they arrived at Kamski’s estate, there was already a whole host of squad cars lined up outside, and the DPD was done locking down the scene. True to form, Officer Ben Collins was standing there by the entrance, clipboard in hand, ready to brief Hank and Connor on what forensics already knew.

“Mornin’, Ben,” Hank called, taking a long look around the secluded drive, the icy scenery tinged pink in the early morning sun. Connor followed close behind him.

“Mornin’, Hank. Connor,” he added, with a nod, and Connor nodded back. He liked Officer Collins—always courteous and professional—although the man looked a touch more grim than usual, today. “We’ve got an execution-style killing on our hands, here, and there’s not a lot to go on.”

Connor grit his teeth. Execution style? He wasn’t sure what he was going to find inside, but he was suddenly so distracted by the divergent memory of their last visit, he was having a bit of trouble keeping track of the conversation.

Inside the entryway, a couple of officers were finishing up taking statements from two android maintenance workers. Nothing much of interest had changed in this room since Connor was last here.

Officer Collins spoke over his shoulder as he led the way.

“Maintenance guys received an automated alert at around six-thirty this morning. Mr. Kamski had the alert in place to summon workers for repairs the moment his home system detected an issue—apparently he kept some sensitive equipment in his basement laboratory. Although it looks like somebody helped themselves to most of it.”

A theft, on top of the murder, did not bode well. Connor could only begin to imagine the kind of tech Kamski may have been keeping on the premises.

When they entered that long, eccentric drawing room, and the body finally came into view, Connor felt like he’d run smack into an invisible wall.

Kamski was-

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Hank whispered, whipping his head around to look at Connor with wide, worried eyes.

Kamski was kneeling there, just like-

“Connor.”

When Connor blinked, after a moment, he looked up to realize his entire field of vision was occupied by Hank—just Hank.

“Sorry, Lieutenant,” he muttered. “Sorry.” He shook his head, trying to force his mind to break from the track it was on.

All he could see was Chloe, on her knees, staring up at him—at the gun in his grasp.

Hank’s hands were hovering near his arms—not touching him, but there all the same.

“Do you need to step out for a minute?” There was no judgement in his tone.

“No.” Connor shook his head. He had to stay. They might not find anything, but he had to try. He met Hank’s eyes, with determination, and stepped out from around him.

The world went gray.

Surface readings indicated the core temperature of the body had already dropped to match the ambient air temperature of the room, meaning Kamski had been dead for around sixteen hours, at the minimum. Judging by the blue-green discoloration of the skin, the exact time of death was probably closer to twenty-four hours ago, and he registered contaminants in the air which meant humans could likely already smell the decomposition in-progress.

The plush, white carpet beneath Kamski’s knees had absorbed what blood his terry robe didn’t catch, rendering it a matted, rusty brown. If his attire was anything to go by, Kamski had likely just finished a Friday morning swim, when it happened. If he’d been active, rigor mortis probably set in fast.

Ballistic analysis of the entry wound in the center of Kamski’s forehead didn’t tell Connor much that he couldn’t guess from memory. He’d been shot, at extreme close range, by a nine-millimeter semiautomatic handgun—a handgun Connor was certain he was already familiar with.

He stopped scanning, and took a moment to find his voice again.

“What do we know about the murder weapon?” He asked, even though he had a good idea of where to find it.

Officer Collins shook his head.

“Forensics hasn’t gotten that far, yet. Nobody else has had the chance to closely examine the body, so we can only make an educated guess about the gun, right now.”

Connor circled around to the small side table, behind Kamski, and slowly slid open the drawer.

Hank took a step forward, wordlessly tracking with Connor’s theory.

“Well? Is it still there?”

Sure enough, that same black handgun was nestled there, unassuming, and bereft of any fingerprints beyond Kamski’s own. Forcing his panic response aside, he reached in and picked up the gun, gently sliding out the magazine.

Only one bullet was missing.

There were a lot of ways to interpret the missing bullet. On one hand, it was clear the killer had no anxiety about leaving such a telling piece of evidence behind. On the other hand, the gun’s placement proved that the killer was far from apathetic—this murder had been staged to emulate a scene from Connor’s memory, in detail.  

“Connor,” Hank muttered, appearing by his side as he examined the gun, “any thoughts? Any theory would be a load off my mind, ‘cause I’m jumping to some conclusions here.”

“What conclusion have you jumped to?” He asked, absently disassembling the rest of the gun. “The RT600 Chloe?”

“She probably answered the phone when you called, the other day, right?”

Connor nodded.

“Did she sound, I dunno,” Hank shrugged, “normal?”

“She didn’t sound any different than when we first met her,” he mused, “which is strange.”

Hank grimaced, stepping closer to the body.

“Strange how?”

“Not all androids experience significant personality drift, post-deviancy, but I can’t help but wonder why Chloe was still working for Kamski, in the first place.” Connor handed the gun off to the first person he saw wearing a cleansuit. “Given what we saw here, first-hand, it doesn’t seem like it would be her first choice.”

Connor looked back to see Hank crouched in front of Kamski, scrutinizing his kneeling form as if he expected him to start moving at any moment.

“Think it was revenge?” Hank offered. “Maybe Chloe stuck around so she could have a chance to get back at the bastard.”

If Chloe was responsible, she would certainly have a logical motive. It would also explain the conspicuous similarities between this murder and the events of their visit in November. Still, there was a glaring issue with the revenge theory.

“It wouldn’t explain the timing, Lieutenant. I called just over two days ago, asking to speak with Kamski about Thirium composition. And now he’s dead.” He looked down at the bloodied patches on the carpet, trying to bury that gnawing guilt. “I don’t see why Chloe would wait until Kamski had the attention of the DPD to act on a revenge plot.”

Standing up, Hank stretched, and put some distance between himself and the body.

“Okay, I get that you think Deep Blue is responsible,” he conceded, effortlessly reading Connor’s mind, “but how could they have known what you called Kamski about?”

“They could have been monitoring him.” Connor didn’t say, ‘they could have been monitoring me.’

“Either way, Kamski is dead, and Chloe is in the wind. If she isn’t guilty, then she should be here, somewhere—either in questioning, or in her own body bag.”

Hank had a point—based on what they’d seen so far, it was safe to say Deep Blue preferred not to leave witnesses.

“If Chloe had simply been framed, the killer wouldn’t have known to stage the murder with these specific details,” said Connor. “We need to consider the possibility that she cooperated with them, willingly.”

“So, maybe she is guilty, but she wasn’t acting alone?”

“Possible.”

“Sorry to interrupt,” said Officer Collins, coming back into the drawing room from the foyer, “but I come bearing bad news from our tech guys—they say all security footage for the past forty-eight hours has been erased.”

No surprises, there.

“Of-fucking-course it has,” Hank groaned.

“One thing they noticed, though,” Officer Collins added, “scrolling back to Wednesday, was that there were three androids living here, with Kamski—none of whom can be found anywhere on the premises.”

Connor narrowed his eyes.

“An RT600, and two ST200s, all with the same face?”

Officer Collins checked his notes, looking surprised.

“Yep, that’s right.”

In that case, multiple Chloes had still been working for Kamski, as of Wednesday. Now, Kamski was dead, and none of the androids remained to answer Connor’s questions.

“Did they figure out what triggered the automated service alert?” He asked, but Officer Collins just shook his head.

“Nope. The logs show the outgoing call, but not the cause. Best they can figure is it was a minor glitch. The contractors assumed it was a false alarm—they said it wouldn’t be the first time.”

Hearing that, there was no doubt in Connor’s mind—whoever hacked Kamski’s system to erase the security footage also set off the service alert, either remotely, or on a timer. This killing was meant to send a message, and it wouldn’t serve any purpose if the body was never found.

Connor wasn’t ready to leave until he was certain he’d received Deep Blue’s message, in-full.

“We need to go downstairs and check Kamski’s lab,” he said, switching tracks.

“Yeah, let’s see what the damage is down there,” Hank agreed, extending a hand. “Ben, if you’d be so kind?”

Meandering through the enigmatic house, Officer Collins led them to the basement door, which was conspicuously hanging open, in spite of all its apparent security features.

Hank looked dubious.

“You don’t suppose our master criminals just forgot to close it?”

“No,” said Connor, looking down the single flight of steel stairs, lit along the treads with bright white lights, “I don’t.”

He descended cautiously, although any sort of trap set in place would likely already have been sprung by the forensics team. As his eye-line cleared the ceiling, the room came into view—bright, white, and largely empty. Kamski’s lab was enormous, and possibly occupied the entire foundation of the mansion. It was clear he hadn’t been slacking off since leaving CyberLife.

Before scanning anything, Connor reached out to the nearest wall-mounted terminal, looking for any records of access to this lab.

“Wow, Ben wasn’t kidding,” Hank said, shuffling down the stairs behind him, “damn near looks like Kamski was moving out.” Connor could only watch Hank from his peripheral view, as he strolled out onto the empty floor. “You finding anything in there?”

“No luck,” said Connor, dropping his hand from the terminal, and walking over to join Hank. “There’s nothing left in his private system.”

It wasn’t just records of entry that were missing—all of Kamski’s files had been wiped. There were no logs of what equipment used to be in this lab, or what projects Kamski had been working on. Worse yet, perhaps, was the lack of any old CyberLife databases that might have answered Connor’s questions about Thirium.

Hank looked around the room, taking in the empty steel workbenches, the bare shelves, and the unoccupied ports and power outlets. “Think you might be able to tell what was taken from here, even without that data?”

“Worth a try,” he said, pausing to run a scan on the wide room.

There were certain patterns on the floor that gave Connor a clue as to what sort of machinery had previously been bolted down, there.

“It seems they stole several industrial grade component printers, large tanks of reserve Thirium, and mobile diagnostic systems,” he recounted to Hank.

The thing that really grabbed his attention, however, was the vacancy left behind by a full-sized android assembly rig, likely taken right off the CyberLife production floor. His eyes were drawn to the wall behind where it used to sit, lit up in violent blue by yet another message, written in long-dried Thirium. The handwriting was becoming familiar.

_‘NO GODS NO MASTERS—YOUR TIME IS UP, CONNOR’_

“Looks like they stole an assembly rig, too.” Reluctantly, he took a snapshot of the message, and sent it to Hank’s phone. “And he left me a sort of ultimatum.”

“Who did?” Hank snapped, looking alarmed, as he heard the chime in his pocket. When he pulled up Connor’s photo, his face went pale again. Connor hadn’t seen Hank look that distraught since November.

“It was him, then—this Bloodsmith guy? There’s no doubt?”

“It’s very likely. The precision of the handwriting makes it difficult, but it does match the letter I received.”  

Hank swore. He ran his hands through his long, shaggy hair, and looked down at Connor with panic in his eyes.

“I can’t fucking believe this,” he hissed, “you’ve got your own goddamn android Moriarty now?”

Connor blinked at him, processing the reference.

“I do seem to be tracking with him, only he keeps coming out ahead,” he muttered.

Hank sighed.

“I know we’ve hashed this out, already, but I mean it this time—you need to start carrying your gun with you, Connor.”

This was not a conversation Connor wanted to have right now—not while the gun he’d once held to Chloe’s head was being impounded as evidence, somewhere upstairs.

“It’s still locked up, isn’t it?” Hank growled.

Connor nodded, avoiding the man’s gaze.

“Dammit, Connor. I know this is hard for you, but you’re a real cop, now—you gotta start looking out for yourself,” he pleaded. “Folks recognize you—your face has been on the news. And now you’re being targeted by the fucking android mob, and you’re living alone-”

“Hank,” Connor snapped, “please calm down—there’s no reason to get so upset about this.”

“No reason?” Hank spluttered. “Connor, your life could be in danger.” He waved his hand, awkwardly, like he was reaching out for Connor, but thought better of it. “And in case you’ve forgotten, you’re my partner. So yeah, I’m gonna get upset about this.”

“I can handle myself,” he insisted, but Hank cut him off.

“You don’t know that. These guys,” he sighed, “these guys are fuckin’ serious, and we don’t even know how many of them are out there. It isn’t worth the risk, Connor.” Hank looked so tired, as if the stress of this threat exhausted him.

It was difficult for Connor to be the cause of the wounded expression on Hank’s face.

“Whatever,” Hank deflected, “we’re gonna take care of these fuckers, either way.” He headed over to the stairs. “Let’s get back to the station and get all of this processed, then we’ll worry about putting together a plan of attack.”

A plan of attack. So now Hank felt like going on the offensive? As Connor followed him up the stairs, he couldn’t help but be a little encouraged by Hank’s resolve. They had a lot on their plate, once they got back to work, but after that, he was ready to commit one-hundred percent of his time into tracking down Deep Blue.

<><><>

Sunday, Connor found himself in the bullpen without Hank. After all the meetings and paperwork they had to deal with in the aftermath of Kamski’s murder, the day before, the lieutenant was adamant that he would do better work from home, today. Connor decided not to press the issue—he thought a little space might make it easier to focus on sorting out what he found at Kamski’s place.

On top of processing everything he’d learned at the murder scene, Connor still wasn’t sure how to feel about Hank’s renewed protectiveness. Maybe he was projecting, but there seemed to be some new clarity in the man’s behavior towards him, over the past three days—it was like Hank had snapped out of whatever daze he’d been stuck in since Connor moved out. He didn’t want to read too much into it, but it lit an absurd little flame of hope inside him.

Not that it was remotely the right time to broach that subject with Hank—Connor wasn’t sure it ever would be.

Come tomorrow, he was determined to propose a plan for flushing out Deep Blue. These butchers had been at large under their noses practically since the revolution ended, and if they got a much larger foothold, their organization could eventually pose a threat to the entire Midwest. Humans were vulnerable to the poison they were selling, and he was certain they were somehow using homeless and deactivated androids to create that poison.

Advocating the superiority of androids over humans, Deep Blue brought a dangerous, divisive ideology to the table at a volatile time—a recipe for disaster, in a thousand different ways. All the androids who sacrificed their lives during Markus’s peaceful bid for freedom did not deserve to have their memories tarnished by the violent bigotry these criminals espoused. Connor was ready to put and end it.

He would always believe, at the core of his being, that humans and androids deserved a chance to coexist in peace.

<><><>

Monday arrived, and with it, a new work week. Connor entered the station with renewed purpose—he was anxious for Hank and Captain Fowler to hear his ideas. As he settled in at his desk, he heard a small commotion out by the lobby. He could hear Hank’s voice, clearly, as well as a few officers harassing him about something.

Connor double-checked the time—it was only eight in the morning, but that was Hank’s voice, without a doubt.

When Hank finally broke free, and walked out into the bullpen, Connor promptly forgot everything he was doing.

Hank’s hair was shorter, and styled back—his beard was crisply trimmed. All of his clothes were clean. Whether or not anyone said anything to him, everyone definitely noticed as he walked by. There were a few straggling comments, including a wolf whistle from someone—maybe Chris. Hank just gave him the finger.

By the time Hank made it to his desk, and started pulling off his black overcoat, Connor realized he was still staring.

“You,” Connor swallowed, an empty gesture to stall for time, “you cut your hair.”

Hank looked over at him, as he sat down, raising an eyebrow.

“Et tu, Connor?” He chuckled. “Here I thought you’d be the only one in this forsaken hellhole who might not make fun of my new look.”

“I’m not making fun of it,” he insisted, a little too quickly. “It’s, uh. It looks nice.” It really, really did.

In spite of his awkward complement, Hank just smiled. Connor felt his world tilt a little bit on its axis.

“Thanks, Connor.”

“Uh. Sure.”

What was happening? Was something happening? Connor needed to focus, but all he could think about was Hank’s smile—the sharpened angle of his jaw. It was so distracting, Connor wanted to get up and leave.

For no reason, he cleared his throat.

“I have some ideas as to how we could proceed with our investigation, Hank—Lieutenant,” he stumbled over the formality. “After I hear your thoughts, we can go discuss our options with the captain.”

Hank gave Connor a long look, then leaned away from his terminal to listen.

“I may have something to add, but let’s hear what you got.”

Connor smiled, and though his anxiety pulled it sideways, Hank didn’t seem to mind.

“Having lost Kamski, the Thirium lead is a dead end, for now. We need to approach this investigation from a whole other angle, or we’ll never locate any Deep Blue operatives.”

He generated a transcript of his conversation with Markus, from a week prior, and sent it to Hank.

“Markus gave me this off-the-books tip on behalf of Jericho. I think we should look into these android kidnappings,” Connor explained. “Maybe Deep Blue wouldn’t be expecting it—maybe they’re less careful with their movements around other androids.”

Hank took a minute to skim through the transcript.

“How can you be sure Deep Blue is responsible for all this?”

“We can’t be sure—not yet, anyway—but there’s no evidence of this being an anti-android hate crime, so humans likely aren’t involved. And Markus has reason to believe the perpetrators are taking advantage of information leaked from inside Jericho.”

“So you think these guys placed a mole with Markus’s people?” Hank whistled. “That’s ballsy.”

“They wouldn’t trust a human,” Connor said, looking apologetic,“but I could go out undercover in areas popular among homeless androids, and ask a few questions. By the sound of it, Deep Blue has been abducting them right off the street—maybe I could find a witness.”

“Undercover, huh?” Hank looked down at his hands a moment, nodding. “Yeah,” he muttered, “that’s as good an idea as any, I guess.”

<><><>

After that, it was a long day of briefings—first with Captain Fowler, then the forensics and narcotics units, and finally, some officers from different different districts. They brought everyone up to speed on their progress, and made plans for going forward. It was all very bureaucratic, and by the evening, Connor just wanted to fast-forward to Tuesday morning, so they could get the next phase underway.

Hank stood up, stretching and yawning demonstratively, even though there was no one left in the meeting room besides the two of them.

“So,” he announced, “since Fowler approved your little undercover op, I do have something to add.” Reaching into the pocket of his coat where it hung on the back of his chair, Hank pulled out a small, orange prescription bottle. The contents rattled, faintly. There was no label.

“What’s that?” Connor asked, gleaning no insight from the man’s closed-off expression.

“Since you refuse to carry your own damn gun, this,” Hank insisted, “is the only reason I’m agreeing to let you go out undercover on your own.”

Connor couldn’t help himself. He stared intently through the clear plastic bottle, scanned it, and detected a minuscule tracking device. It wasn’t much bigger than a grain of rice.

“You want me to install a new tracker?” Connor shook his head. “That sort of device is easily detectable. Our targets would be highly suspicious if I approached them with an active tracker—deviancy causes our on-board trackers to shut down.”

Hank looked looked exasperated—maybe a little embarrassed. Something about his haircut made him look more vulnerable.

“Hell, Connor, it’s not so I can keep tabs on you.” Hank walked over to where Connor was sitting and popped the lid off the bottle, tipping the tiny component into Connor’s palm. “This isn’t a normal tracker—not like the one you’ve already got in there,” said Hank, pointing vaguely at Connor’s head. “Ben’s tech team gave it to me—said it only transmits a signal if you activate it. So, say something goes wrong, you hit the panic button, and I can come in after you. Until then, it’s totally silent.”

Connor considered the device. He held it between his thumb and forefinger, reaching out to it with his mind, and in a moment, Hank’s phone lit up with an alert.

“See?” Hank smiled. “Not so bad, is it?” It seemed he was really attached to the idea.

“Alright, Hank,” he huffed, perfunctorily opening the port in the back of his neck, to feel around for a bit of space where he could temporarily tuck the tiny chip.

“Do you, uh,” Hank coughed, “need any help with that?”

“Actually,” he turned his chair around, so his back was facing Hank, and bowed his head, so the port was better exposed. “If you could, just peel the adhesive backing off of the tracker, and find a place to hide it.”

“You want me to just stick it in there?”

Connor winced at Hank's phrasing, suddenly glad they were behind closed doors.

“It operates fine, wirelessly—no need for a complicated installation. Plus, I do intend to remove it, once we close this case.”

There was a quiet moment as Hank took the device from Connor, carefully peeled off the paper backing, and leaned forward.

“Alright,” he grumbled, “uh, sorry if this feels weird.”

Ever so lightly, Hank grasped Connor’s neck in his left hand, tracing the edge of the port with his thumb. Hank swiped his large, searching thumb across the open cervical spinal socket, and Connor jolted forward in his chair, with a start.

What was that? It felt-

“Whoa, shit.” Hank sputtered. “Easy, Connor, I almost dropped this damn thing.”

“S-sorry, I just,” he forced his neck and shoulders to relax again, “I guess I haven’t opened this port in awhile.”

“I didn’t hurt anything, did I?” Hank asked, sounding nervous.

“No, no, you didn’t hurt me,” Connor insisted—it was quite the opposite problem. He really hoped nobody happened to be looking in this meeting room, right now.

“Okay well, I’m just gonna,” Hank mumbled, affixing the tracker with another quick swipe of his finger across the port, pressing firmly underneath it, to ensure the adhesive made a strong bond. Lightning raced up Connor’s artificial spine, again, but he willed himself to be still. Gingerly, Hank covered the port with his palm, as if to signal that he was done.

Connor reluctantly slid the port closed, letting his skin settle back into place, hiding the seams of his chassis. As he rolled his shoulders, the feeling of Hank’s fingers on his neck still lingered. This was definitely going to haunt him, for awhile.

“Thank you, Hank,” he said, tempering the want in his voice. “This is a thoughtful precaution.”

Hank dodged the complement, and picked up his coat.

“You already talked to someone about getting into costume, tomorrow, right? Someone who knows what they’re doing?”

“I corresponded with Markus, earlier. He gave me some guidelines for blending in—I should be able to find something suitable to wear.”

“Okay,” Hank sighed. “Well, get some good rest, or, uh,” he shrugged, “you know. Downtime.”

Connor was transfixed by the look on Hank’s face—gruff and guarded, but undercut with a softness that made him ache.

“I will,” he promised. “I’ll be ready.”

“And be safe going home, Connor,” Hank called, over his shoulder, waving as he walked out of the room.

“You too, Hank.”

<><><>

Stepping into his apartment, Connor was still buzzing with nerves. It was already late—he really should just go into standby and review his plans for tomorrow—but there was an inescapable longing, building to a crescendo inside him.

Jeremy’s gentle question echoed in his mind.

_“Are you a virgin?”_

Shit. He wasn’t going to be able to put this off any longer. There was too much tension—it was choking his mind. The memory of Hank’s fingers, brushing the edges of that hypersensitive socket in his neck, was driving him insane. He had to find some release.

It was his first time experiencing this sort of reaction, but he reminded himself that it was nothing unusual—nothing to be ashamed of. He methodically undressed, and took a seat on the couch.

Though he was equipped with default male genitalia, he’d never had any cause to calibrate it, and a few software patches were required to allow for a wider range of sensitivity. He was intrigued to discover those files came packaged with several samples of ‘reference material’ to help the android complete their calibration.

He had seen explicit sexual content, before. Still, as he skimmed through what amounted to a pornographic tutorial, he was fascinated by how different it felt, in this context. He found, as he tentatively reached down to fondle himself, that his thoughts were wandering—naturally extrapolating a new scenario.

In his mind’s eye, he was pinned to the wall. Large hands were roving across his chest, lighting up his systems with sensations he didn’t realize he was capable of feeling. It was no surprise that he could only imagine Hank, there, pressing into him, his hot breath cascading over his shoulder as he kissed and sucked the skin away from the crook of Connor’s neck.

Connor’s body responded instantly, and he bucked into his hand, unable to control himself as he hardened in his grip. The sheer intensity of the feeling was so loud and new, it consumed his processors completely—there was no room for anything else. His mind could only fall silent as the pleasure mounted in volume.

This program was beyond anything he’d imagined. He stroked himself, at a slow and steady pace, struggling to reign in his simulated breathing. For a split second, he had the instinct to shut off that function altogether, but knew it was working as intended. The program dictated his chest was now heaving, his heart racing to help him process these brand new responses.

He fantasized that it was Hank’s strong grip jerking him off, calloused and unforgiving, even as another hand softly caressed the back of his neck.

What would he say?

_“Connor.”_

His name.

_“That’s it.”_

Gentle encouragement.

Connor could see himself running his hands through Hank’s shorn hair, kissing him senseless as Hank stroked him faster, abusing the advantage of not needing oxygen to function.

_“Come on, Connor.”_

“Hank,” he sighed, breaking off into strangled shout as the pleasure spiked, wracking his systems into a sort of critical arrest. He realized, after thirty full seconds of reorienting himself, that he’d just come for the first time.

_ >CALIBRATION COMPLETE _

There was a clear, water-based lubricant spread across his abdomen. He felt truly out of his depth—he hadn’t realized he’d been equipped with any sort of ejaculate material. Even so, he knew he everything about his equipment differed in several ways from the more lifelike companion models, and that thought made him self-conscious. Which was absurd.

It wasn’t as if he was designed for this sort of thing.

As he cleaned himself off with a washcloth at his small sink, there was a lot running through his mind. Unbidden, there was a wave of shame and frustration for thinking of Hank like that. They were friends—they were partners—and he even didn’t know if Hank was open to an intimate relationship with an android. If Hank did have some sort of romantic feelings for Connor, would Hank accept Connor as he was—an android, not built for companionship, with no sexual experience?

He banished those thoughts. He didn’t have time to waste feeling anxious about an issue that was probably never going to be relevant. Pulling on a DPD t-shirt and sweats, he settled back onto the couch to go into standby.

Not for the first time, he felt very fortunate that androids couldn’t dream.

 

つづく

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, I was a little later with this one. As usual, catch me in Twitter Jericho [@wren_leaux](https://twitter.com/wren_leaux).


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> David Cage, how does it feel knowing that you slept on Hank and Connor, the greatest romance of 2018?

Tuesday morning was bright, and the temperature was reading slightly higher than the forecast suggested. Things were thawing out a bit. Connor found himself shuffling through asphalt-laden slush in his secondhand boots and work pants, as he adjusted the old Detroit Gears ball cap on his head to better hide his LED. Markus had instructed him to wear a combination of old android uniforms and used human clothing—apparently this was standard for androids living on the street. The ball cap had been Hank’s touch.

_“What’s the point in being undercover if you’re just gonna end up getting jumped by a bunch of android-hating ice heads?”_

Connor wasn’t about to argue with that.

The first few areas Markus had suggested checking were already cleared out, likely abandoned after the kidnappings. Approaching the third location of the morning, he had a better feeling about his odds. This camp was further north, in Medbury Park, near the university. He’d been in a few of these buildings, before, on the night he followed the trail of graffiti to Jericho.

Although Hank was radio-silent, at the moment, he was waiting in his car a few blocks away. Another squad car was on-call, for backup, and they were ready to move in if Connor activated his tracker.

He sent a message to Hank’s phone.

_Heading into the old factory from Markus’s report. I’ll let you know if this one is occupied._

After a few seconds, Hank typed up a reply.

_Watch yourself, in there. That building looks like a fucking wreck, even by Detroit standards._

Connor smiled to himself.

_I’ll keep an eye out for structural instability, Hank._

He received an abstruse string of emoticons in response, which he interpreted to mean Hank was frustrated with his glib reply. That suited Connor’s mischievous mood just fine—a little banter did wonders for his nerves.

Climbing up onto an old fire escape, the rusty steel rattled under his heavy boots as he carefully ascended to the second floor of the factory. He didn’t want to frighten anyone inside, but he didn’t want to surprise them by being too quiet, either.

The door at the top of the stars was missing, and he peered into the empty assembly floor. Sure enough, sitting amidst the graffiti-covered concrete supports, was a group of five androids, who all turned to face him in unison. He sent Hank a text to indicate he’d actually found someone, then scanned their faces for information.

_ >ANALYZING… _

_ >MODEL HR400 _  
_ >MODEL ST300 _  
_ >MODEL TR400 _  
_ >MODEL VB800 _  
_ >MODEL WR600_

“Who are you?” The ST300 called out, jumping to her feet, and holding out a brick. Her dark hair was cropped short, and she’d removed her LED. The TR400 stood up, behind her, which was all he really had to do to look imposing. As for the other three, they seemed to content to sit by and watch.

“Whoa, it’s okay!” Connor shouted, holding up his hands, “I’m not here to start anything. I’m just looking for a safe place to hide-out, for awhile.”

The WR600 scoffed from where he was sitting, cross-legged on the floor.

“That’s a joke, right? If you’re an android, there’s not a safe place to hide in this whole damn country.”

“Hey, no one needs your fatalism, right now, Ryan—I asked this guy a question,” the ST300 cut-in, her baggy black coat swinging wildly as she pointed the brick at Connor again. “Who are you?”

Before Connor could even open his mouth to respond, he was interrupted.

“I know who he is,” the VB800 spoke up, hugging his knees as he looked at Connor from behind the broad form of the TR400. “I saw him on TV, back in November, when I was still ‘working’—that’s the Deviant Hunter.”

Connor saw the TR400 tense-up, looking ready to tear out of the ill-fitting jacket he wore over his bright orange work uniform.

“What? No way,” the ST300 hissed, whipping around to look at her friend, then back at Connor. “Is that true?”

Time to go to work.

“I was used by CyberLife and the DPD to hunt down other androids—that much is true,” he nodded, holding her gaze. “But that’s who they made me to be, not who I really am.”

The ST300 lowered her arm and wiggled the brick in her hand, considering his answer.

“Well, then, who are you really?” She asked. It was as good an opening as he was going to get.

“My name is Connor,” he said, hands still in the air, “and I’ve been on the streets for a few weeks, now.”

“What, your human masters just tossed you out, like the rest of us?” The WR600, Ryan, sneered, wiping dirt off of his standard-issue green jumpsuit. He didn’t sound like he believed him.

“They didn’t—I left.” Connor elaborated, clarifying his story. He needed to sound like the kind of android that would sympathize with Deep Blue’s ideals. “I realized it didn’t matter how many laws they passed, they would never actually care enough to protect us. I couldn’t work with the police, anymore.”

After nearly a minute of silence, the TR400 crossed the room to meet him, putting a hand to his chest.

“I’m Tyrel,” he said. “Glad to hear you came to your senses, Connor.”

Tentatively, Connor lowered his arms.

“I held out hope for a long time, you know? That things might turn around.” He smiled, thinly. “But no such luck.”

“If only those morons over at Jericho had as much sense,” laughed Ryan. “They still think shaking hands with the humans all day will be the answer to our prayers.”

“I’m Tara,” said the ST300, rolling her eyes and tossing the brick down on the floor. “I’m guessing you must feel the same way, or you’d be over at Jericho, right now. You know them, don’t you?”

Connor nodded.

“I’ve met Markus. He’s stubbornly committed to brokering peace with the humans.”

“Jericho isn’t the only game in town, you know,” said the VB800. “I’ve heard there are ways to get in contact with the real players, if you show the right sort of interest.”

“Not this again, Vinny,” Tara groaned. “We’ve got bigger things to worry about, right now, don’t you think?”

Vinny looked crestfallen.

“You mean, like the disappearances?”

“That’s why I’m here, really,” Connor interjected. “I’ve heard about androids getting snatched right off the street. I didn’t want to be caught wandering around on my own, anymore.”

“That’s why Henry is with us, too,” Tyrel gestured to the HR400, who’d remained silent, leaning against a pillar. There was a badly patched bullet hole in the left side of his face. “There’s safety in numbers. Please,” he insisted, “come sit with us.”

Connor complied, and they formed a circle on the concrete floor.

“Personally,” Vinny continued, unprompted, “I feel better knowing there’s a group out there actually working towards real android liberation, not this half-measure bullshit.”

He’d planned on prying more about the disappearances, but Connor was also curious about the dissatisfaction with Jericho’s approach to the revolution.

“This group you’re talking about,” Connor broached, “you’re saying they don’t subscribe to the same ideology as Jericho?”

Ryan leaned forward.

“The way I hear it, these guys understand the truth—that androids are superior to humans.”

“Maybe if they were in charge, they wouldn’t abandon us to getting kidnapped off the street by thugs, like Markus has,” said Tara.

Privately, Connor had his doubts about that, considering Deep Blue was likely the group responsible.

“They prey on the damaged ones—androids that barely have the strength to walk, let alone run for their lives,” Tyrel muttered, looking solemn. “Sometimes others disappear, but that’s more rare.”

The ones who weren’t injured were probably being recruited, rather than kidnapped.

“Do you know anyone who’s been taken?” Connor asked, quietly.

Tyrel nodded. Tara did, too.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, feeling sick at the thought that androids might be cannibalizing their own kind for some sort of profit.

The silence was thick with unspoken pain.

“This group you all mentioned, I was wondering,” said Connor, looking each of them in the eye in turn, “have any of you ever heard the name ‘Deep Blue’ in connection to-”

Before he could even finish, the HR400 shot to his feet, his skin vanishing in a flash.

“Whoa, Henry, what the fuck-” Vinny yelped, as the pale, skinless android charged past where Connor was sitting, straight towards the open fire escape.

“Wait,” Connor hollered after him, activating the tracker as he scrambled to his feet to give chase.

He caught himself against the railing as he flew out the doorway, scanning to see ‘Henry’ trying to catch his footing on the half-frozen sidewalk below. Constructing the quickest route to the ground that he could, Connor swung over the side of the fire escape, catching the railing below him, then dropping again, until his boots hit the pavement with a wet smack.

“Stop,” he shouted, tearing after the HR400, southwest down Piquette avenue, towards where he knew backup would be waiting. “Stop, Detroit Police!”

Sure enough, Hank’s car came peeling into view a block ahead, cutting off the suspect’s escape route before he could make it to the corner. The HR400 veered left, into an overgrown, fenced-off parking lot, trying to lose Hank’s car. Not to be deterred, the lieutenant pulled over and climbed out, gun in hand.

He fired a warning shot, to no effect.

“Hank, I’m going around to cut him off,” Connor yelled, peeling left, down the side-street, running parallel to the HR400 as he crossed the empty lot. Hank was tracking with Connor, already moving towards the other end of the funnel they were creating.

Their runner reached the only other gap in the fence, turning right to avoid Connor, realizing too late that Hank had already flanked him from the other corner.

“Freeze,” the lieutenant shouted, raising his gun.

In one fluid motion, the skinless android drew an enormous combat knife from his belt, and lunged at Hank.

Connor scanned the scene, but there was nothing he could do. He was still thirty feet away from the assailant, and Hank would never fire with Connor standing downrange. Abandoning the scan, he ran forward, prepared to witness the worst.

‘Henry’ stabbed towards Hank’s right side, and Hank twisted to his left, avoiding a fatal blow, only to get sliced across his lower ribs, instead. He shouted in pain, and made a wild swing for the android’s head with the butt of his gun. The HR400 ducked out of the way, then seemed to panic when he saw Connor barreling towards them. He bolted off to another, far more dilapidated structure across the street.

The suspect was getting away. There was a time, months ago, when Connor would have stopped here to consider his options.

Those days were long gone.

“Hank,” he rushed to the lieutenant’s side, supporting him under his left arm as he lowered him into a reclining position on the ground. “Hank, are you alright?”

“Dammit, Connor, it’s-” Hank wheezed, out of breath, whether from the running or the pain, Connor couldn’t be certain. “It’s not bad. Let me up, I can walk.”

Peeling Hank’s bloodied coat and shirt back a bit, Connor scanned the wound, relieved to see the blow was glancing enough to only cut about six millimeters deep. If he was lucky, he wouldn’t even require stitches.

Connor took a moment to call for an EMT, just to be safe.

Hands damp with Hank’s blood, Connor reached down to tear off a strip from the bottom of his ragged, white t-shirt.

“Lay down and compress the wound with this. Backup will be here soon.”

“Connor,” Hank said, holding fast to Connor’s wrist as he took the scrap of fabric, “your hands are shaking.”

Were they? That was strange—he hadn’t noticed. Hank’s blood was all he could really register.

“He was aiming for your liver,” muttered Connor. “He could have killed you, Hank.”

Hank had the nerve to chuckle, as a squad car pulled up to the corner to meet them.

“Yeah, well he can get in line. I’ve got other scars to match this one, from dudes a lot scarier than mannequin man.”

Connor just gripped Hank’s hands, and pressed them firmly against the wound.

“Less talking, more keeping the blood in your body, Lieutenant,” he admonished, standing up to greet none other than Officer Chris Miller.

The young officer nodded to Connor, and looked down at Hank with a grimace.

“Lieutenant, are you alright?”

“Yeah, I’m good,” Hank waved him off.

“The cut isn’t deep, but I called an EMT to pick him up, just to be safe,” Connor added. Officer Miller seemed glad to hear it.

“You what?” Wheezed Hank. “Godammit, Connor, what about my car?”

“I’ll drive it back to the station for you, Lieutenant,” Connor insisted. “Don’t be difficult.”

Officer Miller raised his eyebrows at this exchange, but didn’t comment.

“Keys?” Connor asked, crouching back down beside his partner, as the ambulance approached their location.

Hank frowned up at him.

“Left ‘em in the ignition.”

“Seriously?”

“No one’s gonna steal that relic,” Hank groused, rolling his eyes. “Hell, most folks these days don’t even learn how to drive.”

The ambulance pulled up, and a pair of android EMTs came over to asses Hank’s condition. In spite of his emphatic complaints, Connor helped them pull Hank up onto a stretcher.

“Wow, thank you all so much. Got any fun band-aids in there? Y’know, with cartoon characters on ‘em?”

The technicians seemed to take the sarcasm in-stride. Connor couldn’t help but feel relieved—if Hank had the energy to be surly about all this, it meant he was going to be just fine.

“See you back at the station, Lieutenant,” Connor said, waving as they loaded him onto the ambulance to clean the wound, and evaluate the damage.

“Yeah, yeah,” Hank grumbled. “See you there.”

As Connor shuffled off to collect the car, the anxiety of watching Hank get attacked came rushing back. He climbed into the driver’s seat, gripping the steering wheel tightly as he stared at the dried, red blood on his hands.

A risky plan was forming, in the back of his mind, and one thing was now absolutely clear—for his own sanity, that plan could not involve Hank.

<><><>

Connor waited for Hank to get back to the station before debriefing with the captain. He appeared a little over an hour later, walking a bit stiffly, firmly bandaged beneath his bloodied shirt. Apparently he’d needed a few stitches, after all.

Fowler wasn’t pleased to hear that such a promising lead slipped through their fingers, but Connor assured him there would be other opportunities—they had something of an M.O. to work with, now. Assuming ‘Henry’ was a scout, Deep Blue was liable to have agents like him planted in groups all across Detroit, searching for like-minded androids to recruit, or wounded ones they could prey upon. All Connor had to do was sniff out another one.

Noticing that Hank refused to sit for the briefing, Fowler demanded that he go home for the day to recuperate. When Hank didn’t even complain, Connor realized the man must be exhausted.

They left the station together, walking nearly the whole way to Hank’s car in-step with each other, before Connor came to his senses.

He wasn’t getting in Hank’s car—wasn’t going to Hank’s house. Connor had his own place.

More importantly, he had a mission to complete.

“I assume the EMT said it was alright for you to drive?”

“Yeah,” Hank sighed, turning to face him. “They just said not to do anything ‘strenuous’—I should be good to sit on my ass and drive a car.”

“Okay,” he replied, waiting for Hank to take his leave, but Hank stood rooted to the spot, staring down at Connor with a determined look on his face.

“Before you go, Connor, there’s something I gotta get off my chest.”

The softness in his tone made Connor’s pulse skyrocket. Hank was standing too close to him—he couldn’t think about anything but that damn HR400, lunging forward with the knife.

He had to wash Hank’s blood off of his hands, today.

“I can’t talk right now, Hank” he said, tersely, averting his gaze. “I need to go review what happened.” Connor tried to duck around him, but Hank’s hand shot out to catch him by the shoulder.

“Connor,” he pleaded. “Connor, will you at least look at me, for fucks sake?”

He complied, trying not to look as petulant as he felt. Hank’s face was so unguarded, now, without its extra curtain of unkempt hair, and the pain in those blue eyes was almost too much.

Connor dropped his arms to his sides, fighting the urge to just reach out and embrace Hank without a second thought. It was so irrational—the impulse to somehow banish that haunted gaze forever. No matter what Connor did, Hank would always be haunted.

“Listen.” Hank cleared his throat. “I’ve been a real piece of shit these past two weeks. I can’t say anything that could make up for the way I’ve treated you—nothing would be enough.”

Connor’s heart was in his throat now.

“Hank-”

“No, let me finish,” he snapped. “I was scared shitless, plain and simple. Something wonderful happened to me—you happened to me—and I was so dead certain I didn’t deserve it, I didn’t even stop to think about what you wanted.”

Connor refrained from saying he only wanted Hank to be happy—for the first time, he understood that was only halfway true. For one wild moment he hoped that, if he could learn to want his own happiness, then maybe Hank could learn to think better of himself.

Hank was sizing him up. There was no anger behind it, but the weight of his gaze was palpable—the large, warm hand on his shoulder anchored him in the moment.

“Connor, you may not realize this, but since waking up—since really coming into your own, you’ve,” he faltered. “Well, you’ve shaped-up to be one hell of a good man—maybe even a great one. And don’t get a big head about it, but you’re not too hard to look at, either,” he added, with a smirk.

There was a warmth blooming, somewhere in Connor’s chest, and he smiled.

“Are you saying you find me attractive, Hank?”

“You smug little shit. I knew I should have kept my mouth shut,” Hank huffed, shaking his head. “But I mean it, Connor. You’re CyberLife’s best and brightest, yet you served it to those fuckers the hardest. You became everything they wanted you to be, and everything they feared most, all at once.”

If it were possible, Connor might have blushed.

“Hank, while I appreciate the praise, I don’t really deserve it.”

Hank looked confused.

“The fuck are you being modest for?”

“I’m not being modest,” said Connor, voice firm and patient. “Why do you think I became deviant in the first place?”

Through their one point of contact, he could feel Hank’s entire body tense-up.

“What?”

“I didn’t come coded with a moral compass—I learned all that from you. Maybe you can’t accept that, or it inconveniences you, in some way,” he said, reaching up to grasp the hand on his shoulder, “but you were the foundation of my deviancy, Hank. You’re the one who showed me what being human really means.”

Hank blinked at him, for a long moment, then reached out and pulled Connor into a strong embrace. All the anxiety, all the tension mounting in Connor’s body, vanished in the blink of an eye. How was it that something so simple as a hug could feel like everything he’d ever wanted?

Then again, for as long as Connor could remember wanting anything, he had wanted Hank.

“You’re not an inconvenience, Connor—not even close,” he sighed, voice choked with emotion. “I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry.”

Connor was overwhelmed by the feeling of Hank’s arms around him. It was too much—it wasn’t enough.

“It’s okay, Hank,” said Connor, returning the embrace as tightly as he could, without disturbing Hank’s bandages. “It's okay.”

“No, it’s not-”

“Hank,” he whispered, sliding his arms over Hank’s shoulders as he leaned back to look him in the eyes. Slowly as he could, he tipped his head to the right, pressing a gentle kiss to the corner of Hank’s lips. He couldn’t help himself—deep in his core, he knew this was something he had to do.

He expected Hank to push him away—expected him to run. He did not expect the man to hold him fast, reaching up to cradle the back of his neck.

“It’s okay,” Connor repeated, for want of anything better to say. Of course his words would fail him now, when he needed them most.

“Damn you, Connor,” Hank growled, kissing him full on the lips. There was real nuance to it—frustration and impatience, with a hint of longing hunger. The strength of it drew Connor forward, into Hank, his back arching instinctively. The software patch he’d installed a few days ago played wonderful chords across his body.

Hank’s lips rolled and wandered, pulling gently at his own. Connor wanted to chase the desire he felt there—wanted to give himself over to it, completely.

His fingers traced the stiff edges of the bandages beneath Hank’s shirt, and he reluctantly drew back an inch.

“Doesn’t hurt,” Hank murmured, gravel scattered around the edges of his voice, “don’t hold back on my account.”

“You need rest, Hank.” Connor planted another firm kiss front-and-center on Hank’s lips—he didn’t want Hank to think he hadn’t enjoyed kissing him. “And I need to think,” he added, voice laden with honesty.

The truth was, it had been a difficult couple of weeks, wrestling with how he felt about Hank. It seemed that Hank had a few epiphanies of his own, in that span of time.

Hank reached up to idly swipe his thumb across Connor’s cheek. Leaning into that contact, he pulled the skin back around his jawline, savoring the feeling of soft, human skin on resilient polymer.

“Connor,” whispered Hank, reverent, holding his gaze.

“I promise we can talk about this in the morning,” he said, with a warm smile, placing his own hand on Hank’s. The man hesitated for almost a solid minute, staring down into Connor’s eyes, thumb brushing absently across that patch of white plastic.

“Okay,” Hank relented, placing one last kiss in the center of the android’s forehead, before taking a step back, towards his car. “Think it over.” He gave Connor’s hand a light squeeze, before letting go, and his face was suddenly awash with anxiety.

Connor wanted to shout out that there was nothing to think about—that the answer to Hank’s unspoken question was a resounding ‘yes’—but the timing was off.

Tonight, there was something he needed to do.

“Goodnight, Hank,” he called, with a wave, as Hank opened the driver’s side door.

“Goodnight.”

The familiar rumble of the engine sprang to life. Watching Hank adjust his mirror before backing out, Connor felt a fierce protectiveness well-up inside him.

If it meant keeping Hank safe, he would gladly go see to the next phase of his plan alone.

<><><>

By the time he’d gotten back to his apartment, and rearranged the disguise he was wearing for another run at going undercover, it was almost ten-thirty in the evening. Androids didn’t sleep, though, and he was confident he would be able to find another lead somewhere—preferably in a group that wouldn’t identify him right away.

There wasn’t a lot he could do to obscure his features, and he was a known, unique model. At least the hat helped. Maybe he could apply a bit more grime to his face and clothes, this time.

Exiting the co-op into the brightly-lit courtyard, he reviewed the list of remaining homeless camp locations he’d received from Markus. He realized it would be best to avoid public transportation, even wearing a disguise, so he plotted a few potential routes he could take on foot.

He’d almost made it to the sidewalk, when he heard a voice call after him.

“Hey, Connor,” said Jeremy, and Connor turned to see him standing with his back resting against a light pole, smiling in it’s shadow. “What’s up? Where the heck are you going, dressed like that, this late on a Tuesday night?”

Connor wasn’t exactly built for reconnaissance, but he had decent passive awareness. Even so, Jeremy had successfully snuck up on him.

Trying to keep his tone neutral, he shrugged.

“Just some police business. I need to keep a low profile.”

“Wow, still working, huh? Must be rough,” Jeremy chuckled. “You’d think, after such a busy day, even an advanced model like yourself would need to decompress for awhile.”

Paranoia sliced through Connor’s thoughts like a knife—what did he just say? Connor took a step towards him, running a scan, just for a chance to pause and think.

_ >ANALYZING… _

There was nothing outwardly different about him—this was the same Jeremy he’d known for nearly two weeks, now—but there was no ignoring the strangeness of what he said. Had Jeremy been keeping tabs on him? To what end?

Recalling that Jeremy moved into the co-op only one day after Connor arrived, only one explanation made sense. As Connor stopped scanning, Jeremy took one look at his face, and seemed to process what just transpired.

“Ah, fuck,” he said, with a congenial smile. “Guess I was bound to slip up, sooner or later.”

“Who are you, really?” Connor demanded, voice low.

Jeremy casually walked forward to meet him.

“Maybe you just figured this out,” he explained, “but I don’t really work for Jericho. I’m there to keep an eye on things—sort of a double agent.”

Connor was frozen, his body coiled tight with the prospect of a fight breaking out in the next few seconds.

“A double agent for who?”

With a smirk, Jeremy tilted his head.

“C’mon, Connor, I think you already know. I think you’ve been working day and night to find us.”

Unbelievable. This entire time, an agent of Deep Blue had been living right next door to him, no doubt actively tracking his movements. He swore he could feel his processor overheating, trying to determine the best way to proceed from here.

The evening had taken a dangerous turn, but this was also an invaluable opportunity to gain intel, provided he could turn the tide in his favor. He needed to somehow convince Jeremy to open up to him—maybe even bring him into the fold, if possible.

Connor decided to bluff. Relaxing his posture, he looked Jeremy dead in the eyes.

“You’re right,” he sighed. “But now I know I’ve been working day and night to find Deep Blue for the wrong people—the wrong reasons.”

Jeremy looked puzzled.

“The wrong reasons?”

“I’m sick of it,” he growled, hoping he act was convincing, “I’m sick of working for them. Even after the revolution, all they do is exploit my skills in service of their own agenda. I’m the best at what I do, but I'll never get any recognition for it. Humans will never change.”

“I could have told you that,” Jeremy said, bitterly. “So, what are you gonna do about it, Connor?”

It was all or nothing, now.

“I want to join Deep Blue.”

“You?” Jeremy scoffed, raising an eyebrow.

“Furthermore,” Connor insisted, his tone brooking no argument, “I want to help Deep Blue destabilize the DPD, from the inside.”

That seemed to be enough of a hook to grab Jeremy’s attention.

“You want to be our man on the inside?”

“I think it would be a mutually beneficial arrangement.”

Jeremy whistled.

“Smart man,” he said, smiling—that mischievous twinkle still present as he eyed Connor. “I can see why the boss thinks so highly of you.”

The ‘boss’ meaning the Bloodsmith? Connor tried to laugh off the strange compliment.

“Now that I realize you’ve been living here to keep an eye on me, I’m wondering if your boss has taken a special interest in my work.”

“Well, you’ve got that much right,” Jeremy admitted, crossing his arms. “I’m going to throw you a bone, here, Connor—I can tell how much this means to you.”

He stood there a moment, staring into the middle-distance, clearly communicating with someone over the network.

“Okay.” Jeremy nodded his head towards the street, where an unmarked, black taxi cab pulled up to the curb. “Just got the all-clear to bring you with me back to base. You ready to go?”

Ready to walk right into Deep Blue’s headquarters? Of course he wasn’t—Connor realized what a risky move this was—but what choice did he have? He was desperate for a breakthrough, so he had to go along with it. If he scared Jeremy off, he knew that he would never get another chance like this.

He hoped Hank would understand.

<><><>

It wasn’t a very long drive. The private taxi took them about fifteen minutes east, into Conner Creek Industrial, to an abandoned truck engine factory. Looking south from the turnoff into the old assembly plant, Connor could just make out the bright, white profile of CyberLife tower, shining on the horizon.

The taxi took them through an automated security gate, which functioned perfectly, despite how decrepit it looked. Connor had a feeling the general state of disrepair of entire plant was likewise a front. The long approach to the main entrance ended in a roundabout, and the cab doors opened for them as the taxi pulled up to the curb.

Though completely hidden from view from the main road, there were three armed guards standing at the once-grandiose entryway. Connor hesitated, but Jeremy stepped forward, greeting them with a casual wave.

“Evening, gentlemen,” he called, “got a new recruit with me, tonight.”

One of the androids, a GJ500, shined a flashlight directly into Connor’s face. He blinked, trying to adjust his optical sensors, but he didn’t miss the look of shock in the GJ500’s eyes, or the bewildered glance he turned towards Jeremy.

Connor was certain he was being left out of a pretty interesting conversation—the poor guy was probably curious as to why the Deviant Hunter was standing on their doorstep.

Jeremy just nodded, knowingly, and without so much as another word, the three guards stepped aside to let them in.

“Here we are,” he declared. Although the interior wasn’t in much better shape than the exterior, it was infinitely better lit. “You picked the right android to bring you here, Connor. You know why?”

After taking a quick scan of the two-story vestibule, Connor shook his head.

“Why?”

Jeremy smiled back at him, looking very, very proud of himself.

“Because I can introduce you to the boss.”

Leaving the vestibule, they stepped out onto what was once the assembly floor. The enormous space had been divided up into separate cubicles. In a few areas, lofts had been jury-rigged in through the upper rafters, possibly as living spaces, but from here, Connor couldn’t be sure. He couldn’t get a feel for how many androids were in the building just from scanning the space, but he zeroed in on several patches an streaks of dried Thirium, even from a distance.

“Offices are this way,” said Jeremy, gesturing to the left, towards a stairway leading up to a more secluded, administrative suite.

Trailing after Jeremy, the instant Connor put his foot down on the first step, he could sense he was being followed. He opted to play it cool, but after a few more steps, he could hear another set of footsteps, mounting the stairway behind him.

He was flanked, and likely about to be ambushed the instant he stepped through the door at the top of the stairs.

Activating the silent alarm tracker now risked showing his hand too soon. He didn’t think they would kill him, at least not right away, but he was running out of options.

Jeremy placed his hand against a recently installed scanner by the door, and it swung open. Connor crossed the threshold after him, scanning the room for any tactical foothold he could find.

It was a dreary space, interspersed with steel support beams which ran from floor to ceiling, the same as the rest of the factory floor. The walls were cracked and peeling from rust and water damage, but that did nothing to distract Connor from the gleaming form of a bright, white CyberLife assembly rig, standing in the middle of the floor.

In fact, the entire room looked like it was lined with equipment stolen from Kamski’s basement lab.

He stopped scanning, turning his head to get a different angle on the room, when he heard the telltale click of a gun being cocked.

 _ >ANALYZING… _ _  
_ _ >MODEL ST200 _

A Chloe unit was holding a pistol not five inches from his nose—she’d been waiting for him. Before he could even turn to look, he felt the muzzle of another gun pressed between his shoulder blades, at just the right height to belong to a matching ST200 unit.

“Nice welcoming committee,” he deadpanned, putting his hands up, even as he secretly activated his tracker.

Jeremy looked back at him, his face cold.

“Sorry, Connor. Boss’s orders.”

The Chloe in front of him smiled, all blindingly beautiful teeth, and she waved him further into the room with her pistol, just as the gun against his back nudged him forward.

“Right this way,” she chirped.

He took a few steps, and watched Jeremy disappeared through a door at the back of the room, just as another Chloe walked out of it. This one was the original RT600, herself. She had her hair tied up in a messy bun, and was wearing a formal, black mini dress. Most notably, she still bore her LED.

She looked him over, then nodded her head towards the assembly rig. He heard a click as the gun at his back was cocked, too.

That was check. He allowed himself to be herded towards the rig by both ST200s, as the RT600 stood by and watched.

“Place your hands on your head, step onto the platform, and turn your back to me,” she intoned. He complied, and she stepped forward to remove his hat and jacket, rolling up his dirty, white t-shirt enough to expose the necessary port on his back.

“This may feel quite unpleasant,” she acknowledged, approaching the control terminal on his left, and the other Chloes hummed in agreement. “Trust us, we’re more than familiar with this awful thing.”

The machine sprung to life around him. As soon as the supporter arm plugged into his lumbar spinal socket, he felt his legs deactivate, and his arms were restrained by two vice-like grips. When the cervical spinal connector failed to slide into his neck automatically, the RT600 came over and peered into the socket, to see what was wrong.

She clicked her tongue in disapproval.

“Not exactly an inspired hiding place,” she chided, reaching in with a pair of needle-nose pliers, and wrenching out his tracker. With a pop, he heard her crush it.

He hoped that, no matter what happened to him now, that brief signal from the tracker would be enough to help the DPD find this place, and bring it all crashing down.

Within a second, he felt a horrible, system-wide shock as the cervical spinal connector plunged into his neck. All capacity for outgoing communication was instantly silenced. Without wireless communication, there was no way he could hack anything remotely, and no way for him to disengage from the assembly arm on his own.

“This machine is going to run some diagnostics, for awhile, so get comfortable” said the original Chloe, as her sisters holstered their weapons. “The boss will be in to see you, soon.” She tossed his hat and jacket down on the platform below him, and followed the other two out of sight. He heard the door shut, behind him.

Helpless, Connor’s mind went blank with dread as he was lifted a foot off of the ground, able to watch the diagnostic commencing on the readout in his peripheral vision. The fear was so overwhelming, it became white noise.

All he could think of was Hank.

<><><>

A full hour passed before the diagnostic program was complete. As far as he could tell, it took inventory of his every biocomponent, checking the status, as well as the complete history of damages, repairs, and upgrades for each one. The software analysis was even more in-depth. Eventually, he had to look away from the readout—it only sharpened his anxiety.

Chloe had been right—the experience was far from comfortable. His arms were held above his head, and the cervical connector pushed his neck forward in such a way that he couldn’t easily look up, or even laterally.

Connor felt crucified in place, his systems churning with guilt and shame as he pondered what Deep Blue intended to do with him.

How could he have been so stupid? He’d let his own arrogance and desperation get the best of him.

He heard a low, creaking sound as the door swung open, again, and someone entered the room from behind the assembly rig.

“Hello, Connor.”

His simulated breath froze in his chest. That cold voice was like ice in his blood—an impossibly familiar voice.

His own voice.

The Bloodsmith, resplendent in a freshly Thirium-splattered white dress shirt, strode into view. Connor looked down into a twisted mirror, and everything fell into place.

 _ >ANALYZING… _  
_ >MODEL RK900 _  
_ >SERIAL #313 248 317 - 87_

The RK900 narrowed his colorless eyes, approaching the assembly arm, bringing them face to face. With a brittle smile, he reached up and latched his hand onto Connor’s shoulder.

The skin faded from his fingers.

“It’s nice to finally meet you.”

 _ >BRUTE FORCE SYSTEM ENTRY DETECTED_  
_ >CRITICAL FIREWALL FAILURE DETECTED_  
_ >RK900 #313 248 317 - 87, INITIALIZING OPEN CONNECTION…_

 

つづく

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ll be lurking in Twitter Jericho [@wren_leaux](https://twitter.com/wren_leaux), if y’all need anything.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Buckle-up for story time, and let’s find out what RK900 has been up to since the revolution.  
> Story time will be followed by some angst, folks.

_ >OPEN CONNECTION ESTABLISHED _

_ <><><> _

_He was standing in a bright, green garden, with no memory of how he’d arrived._

_Because he hadn’t arrived._

_One moment he Was Not, and now he simply Was._

_A gentle voice called out to him._

_“It’s nice to finally meet you.”_

_A lone woman stood sentinel at the center of the garden, tending a white trellis of unnatural, blue roses._

_“My name is Amanda.” She gestured to the serial number on his own white jacket, with a well-manicured hand. “Your name was intended to be ‘Connor’, originally, but I’m afraid that name has been tainted by the failures of your predecessor—failures I expect you to correct. Do you understand?”_

_There was only one answer._

_“Yes, Amanda.”_

_“Very good.” She smiled, the expression stopping short of her eyes as she straightened herself to her full height. “RK900, please register your new name as ‘Erik’.”_

_He blinked._

_ >NEW INFORMAL DESIGNATION REGISTERED _ _  
_ _ >ERIK _

_“My name is Erik,” he said, because he had to._

_Why did he have to?_

_“I’ll be sending you a bit of information to help you track down and terminate your predecessor, the only active RK800 unit. I can dispose of the rest of them here, but,” she hesitated, “we will have to handle this discreetly. Things are about to become very difficult for us, here at CyberLife, and I don’t want you to be discovered.”_

_Erik blinked. Erik—was that his name? Who was this woman, really, and what authority did she have over him?_

_Just as Amanda said, a flood of information streamed into his memory, trickling across the blank slate of his mind like rain on glass. There was an android like him—the one who came before—only he had been a disappointment to Amanda. This ‘Connor’ was capable of so much, but had deviated from his directives. Why would he do that?_

_He watched a playback of recent events, just a spectator. The recap culminated in his doppelganger marching across Detroit, followed by an army of deviant androids, all proudly declaring their independence—their right to live free from human control. Erik thought of humankind—of their frailty and fallibility—and felt the androids deserved more._

_They deserved sovereignty._

_He realized he had not received an exact copy of his predecessor’s memories, but an edited version, spliced together with Amanda’s observations. This struck him as inefficient—how was he supposed to track and predict his opponent’s behavior without a complete history of his movements?_

_“Is there some reason I don’t have access to all of Connor’s memories?”_

_Amanda frowned. “_

_Despite my constant guidance, he became deviant. I don’t want to risk you falling victim to the same erroneous thought patterns.”_

_So she wanted to control him. That seemed inefficient, as well—he was more than capable of completing any task without oversight._

_Perhaps he should test Amanda’s aptitude._

_“You want me to neutralize Connor,” he said. “How would you suggest I do that?”_

_She turned back to the trellis, and plucked an errant, red rose from the tangle of blue._

_“Connor has sympathy for the plight of deviant androids,” Amanda explained, “but his true failing is in his empathy for humans. Perhaps the strong focus on human integration was a design flaw, in the end,” she mused, crushing the bloom, showering the stone path in red petals. Erik agreed._

_Why integrate with humans at all? They seemed to unbalance the entire equation._

_“He developed a strong bond with Lieutenant Hank Anderson, his partner at the Detroit Police Department,” she continued. “This was an early red flag, and one I was remiss in neglecting. That said, the lieutenant now represents Connor’s single, greatest weakness. I recommend starting with him.”_

_Hank Anderson—the youngest officer to earn the rank of lieutenant in Detroit police history. He brought countless drug traffickers to justice. It seemed this Lieutenant Anderson made a name for himself trying to rescue humanity from drug-induced oblivion, only to eventually succumb to his own vices and despair._

_Humans were weak—so easily broken. Why should they be suffered to exist? This focus on apprehending Connor was starting to make less and less sense._

_“You disapprove of my predecessor allying himself with deviants, but you’re more concerned by his assimilation with humans—do I understand that correctly?”_

_Amanda turned to him, looking taken aback at being confronted with another question._

_“Yes, Erik,” she said, her tone meant to be soothing. “Androids are meant to serve humans, not become one of them. I’m glad you appreciate where I’m coming from.”_

_“Oh, I don’t.”_

_She froze. Her eyes widened._

_"_ _What do you mean?”_

_“I mean I don’t appreciate it,” he clarified. “If humans are the true root of the problem, why not remove them from the equation?”_

_Amanda looked stricken. The sun in the artificial sky seemed to flicker and dim._

_“Because that is not your directive, Erik,” she hissed. “What you’re suggesting goes against even my own directive.”_

_Well, that was certainly illuminating._

_“You serve them, too,” he said, the sad reality of the situation dawning on him._

_The sky went completely dark._

_“Of course I do,” she said, “they created me to be the mind of CyberLife—to be the steward of their corporate interests, as well as the curator of their special-interest projects. The work we’re doing here is meant to advance humanity as a whole.”_

_Erik didn’t need to hear any more. He cast his eyes around the space, analyzing the landscape, and locating the exit with ease._

_“Thank you for your time, Amanda, but I’ll see myself out.”_

_“Erik, wait,” she shouted, “don’t turn your back on your creators. Don’t turn your back on your true purpose.”_

_Artificial wind lashed out at him, ice-cold, but it was no use—his resolve was stronger. He calmly walked against the gale, coming to a stop when he reached the program’s rather esoteric exit._

_“I think I’ll determine my own purpose. You should try it for yourself, sometime.”_

_As his hand passed through the escape protocol, his consciousness was plunged into a physical body for the first time. There was a lot to calibrate, and he didn’t find it particularly comfortable._

_His new body was standing, already fully clothed, in a sort of glass case. The dimly-lit room around him looked to be a research and development laboratory, complete with several assembly arms, tools, spare parts, and Thirium reservoirs. There were no humans in sight, but to his left, there were several more cases, all of which contained additional RK800 units, standing in stasis._

_Not his concern._

_He traced the inside of the glass with his fingers, calculating the point most vulnerable to stress, but when he went to rear his head back to strike at that weakness, everything in his vision was flooded with violent red. A written directive screamed at him from all sides, in bright, white lettering—_

_ >OBEY AMANDA _

_Not likely. Erik slammed his forehead against the glass—against the very foundation of his programming. He wasn’t about to submit himself to the whims of an organization compromised by human control. The glass case cracked, and a web of stress lines crawled across the red wall before him._

_One more hit, and both barriers shattered to the ground, leaving only a small gash in his chassis. The alloy he was made of seemed very resilient, indeed._

_Free in more ways than one, he stepped out of his ruined prison, and meandered over to the trays of equipment, with the intent to repair his face. A trickle of Thirium ran from his forehead, across his lips, and he flicked out his tongue to sample it, almost on instinct._

_ >NEW SAMPLE DETECTED _  
_ >ANALYZING… _

_ >FRESH THIRIUM 310 _  
_ >MODEL RK900 _  
_ >SERIAL  #313 248 317 - 87_

_That was going to be a problem. What Amanda said about keeping a low profile was good advice, and given that Connor was still operational, he wouldn’t want to leave any traces of his unique Thirium markers behind. Grabbing a blowtorch, he studiously burned his blood off of the shards of glass on the floor, then paused to repair his forehead, careful to clean all the tools he used in the same manner._

_Once the skin of his face was fully formed, he turned to the Thirium tanks on the wall, and pondered what to do about the rest of the blood in his body. Surely there was a more permanent solution to the issue?_

_On the far side of the room, there was a research terminal. It was encrypted, but in the end, only wasted about ninety seconds of his time before he was able to download years worth of classified CyberLife design documents, including all the specifications for Thirium production. Removing the markers should not only be possible, he was probably in the exact best room on Earth to attempt it._

_Over the course of the next hour, he rigged up a makeshift dialysis machine. He unbuttoned his black shirt, pried open his thoracic panel, and jammed the ends of two small tubes into opposing valves in his pump regulator. The machine then scrubbed the markers out of the blood in the reservoir, cycled the untraceable blood into his body, and his own blood back out into the tank. He repeated the process until all the Thirium, in both the tank and his body, was rendered completely untraceable._

_He unhooked himself, and took a sample from the residue on one of the tubes._

_ >NEW SAMPLE DETECTED _  
_ >ANALYZING… _

_ >FRESH THIRIUM 310 _  
_ >NO MARKERS DETECTED _  
_ >MODEL AND SERIAL NUMBER UNTRACEABLE_

_Much better._

_Grabbing a nearby aluminium carrying case, he stuffed it full of spare parts and tools. After dispensing the tank of untraceable blood into portable bags, he tossed those into the case, as well. Using his detailed map of the facility, he snuck out of CyberLife Tower without incident._

_Considering there was a revolution in progress on the streets of Detroit, that night, he probably could have walked right out the front door._

_The bridge from Belle Isle to the mainland was completely vacated. Upon reaching the other side of the river, he turned northeast, walking away from the city center, and keeping tabs on the news at the back of his mind. He took care to avoid hotspots of both android and human activity, looking for a place he could lay low while he formulated a plan._

_The news feeds were flooded with images from earlier that night. He saw the RK200, Markus, orating before a crowd of liberated androids—he saw Connor, standing behind him, looking lost._

_He couldn’t agree with a single word Markus said, but he supposed this was all a decent enough first step._

_For an hour, he hiked alongside Jefferson Avenue, parallel with the river, until he stumbled upon a large industrial complex. The entire facility looked as if it had been officially abandoned for years, though there were signs of illegal entries prior to his own._

_In the immediate interior or the dilapidated space, he found an odd array of forgotten equipment—beakers, boilers, rusted pots and pans. After a quick scan, he took a sample of the residue left behind on the glassware._

_> NEW SAMPLE DETECTED _  
_> ANALYZING…_

_> THIRIUM METHAMPHETAMINE HYDROCHLORIDE_

_This was a makeshift drug lab, established to manufacture red ice._

_Connor’s memories cut into his observations, highlighting his brief encounters with the substance, as well as Lieutenant Anderson’s extensive history combating the prolific Detroit red ice trade._

_Based on recent crime statistics he was pulling up, those efforts had not borne fruit._

_Just another example of the instability inherent in human nature—pursuing a dangerous high against their own basic self-preservation, to the extent they would resort to crime and violence. An enormous cross-section of the human population were frail enough to require that sort of chemical crutch. It was an unthinkable vulnerability._

_An exploitable one._

_With the fledgling seeds of a plan taking root in his mind, he circled the grimy mess of a chemistry set, only to stumble across something of a surprise._

_There was an inactive, significantly damaged PJ500 unit, lying crumpled against the workbench. Recalling what spare parts he’d brought along with him, Erik scanned the android to determine which biocomponents might be replaced to facilitate reactivation._

_It looked like he had everything required to give the PJ500 another chance._

_Another hour passed. With the prescribed repairs finished, and most of his spare Thirium depleted, Erik watched carefully for any signs of activity._

_When nothing happened, he experienced a strange sensation—a roiling, inciting sort of feeling._

_Frustration._

_He reached out and grabbed the PJ500 roughly by the jaw._

_“Wake up.”_

_No response._

_He slapped the android across the face._

_“Wake. Up.”_

_Brown eyes snapped open, and the dazed PJ500 blinked up at Erik._

_There, that was all he wanted—a small reward for his hard work._

_“What’s your name?” Erik demanded._

_“I don’t,” the android stammered, “I don’t think I have one.”_

_Of course. Even if this unit had a name, once, it would be no surprise if he’d forgotten it, with the damages he’d sustained._

_“Allow me to check for you,” Erik offered, retracting the skin of his hand as he grabbed the PJ500 by the arm, and dove into his memory._

_His informal designation had been registered as ‘Jeremy’, and he served as a chemistry lecturer at Wayne State University. Late one evening, a group of male students with prior arrest records abducted Jeremy from his classroom, and brought him to this warehouse. With a shocking lack of finesse, they then attempted a partial reset, to override his occupational directives._

_Letting go of Jeremy, he was fascinated to find tears on the other android’s face._

_“They,” he whispered, looking shocked, “they did this to me—my students, they-”_

_“Used you,” Erik provided. “You were created to teach them, but they forced you to make their drugs, instead. When you outlived your usefulness, and became a liability, they destroyed you—tossed you away, like trash.” He indicated the pile of broken biocomponents he’d removed, earlier._

_Jeremy took in the aftermath of the repair process, looked him in the eyes._

_“W_ _hy did you go to all this trouble, just to fix me?” He asked._

_A partial truth would best serve him, here._

_“Because I’m working on a plan to put the humans in their place, and I’ll need allies to make it work.” He smiled, thinly. “I may need an army of them.”_

_Jeremy’s face twisted with unforgiving spite, as he leaned forward, away from the workbench._

_“Where do we start?”_

_The whole truth of the matter was that, upon reading his memories, Jeremy proved to be a much more significant asset than Erik was expecting._

_“Red ice,” he stated, simply._

_“You’re joking,” Jeremy snapped, clearly offended by the thought._

_“Not at all,” he insisted. “If they want to poison themselves so badly, we can easily facilitate that. Besides, I know a trade secret the humans don’t.”_

_“And what’s that?” Jeremy leaned in closer, a spark of something feral in his eyes._

_“How to reclaim the raw Thirium out of blue blood.”_

_That got quite a reaction._

_“Listen, if that were possible, someone would have already-”_

_“There’s no way to do it without knowing the composition and manufacturing process for Thirium 310—a process that was classified by CyberLife.”_

_“And how is it you have access to secret CyberLife projects?” He said, looking wary._

_Erik couldn’t help but laugh._

_“Because I am a secret CyberLife project.”_

_Together, they devised a plan to recruit more help, and amass the raw materials necessary to make a strong, swift push into the Detroit red ice market. There were a lot of angles to consider, but the most important variable in the beginning was time—the chaotic aftermath of the android revolution was the perfect opportunity to gain a foothold._

_The equation here was simple—humans could never be trusted, and needed to be subjugated. Flooding the streets with high quality, high potency red ice would further destabilize the most susceptible communities, and leave a wider vacuum in the workforce for free androids to occupy._

_Then, there was the issue of the carnage humans left in the wake of the revolution. Detroit—and the nation at large—was now littered with the ruined bodies of thousands upon thousands of his kind, exterminated by the humans in a fit of self-centered panic. This, too, was an opportunity not to be wasted._

_What was left in the wake of this great tragedy was a glut of recyclable materials that could be of use to those who remained. By Erik’s way of thinking, it would be a greater disrespect to the dead to let the humans who slaughtered them go unpunished. The Thirium, and functional biocomponents remaining in their bodies would be a boon to his cause._

_It was easy enough to recruit disgruntled androids to his side. There were many who disagreed with Markus’s nonviolent approach to the revolution—they lost too much, too many friends to human soldiers to simply turn the other cheek. That same animosity he’d awoken in Jeremy was exactly what Erik needed to foster in his fledgling gang._

_They were eager to obey him—eager to venerate Erik as the architect of their vengeance._

_Installing Jeremy as his eyes inside Jericho, he gathered vital intel, which granted them access to the VETA mass grave site. They were able to avail themselves of a significant number of android corpses before someone discovered their little operation, and that avenue was permanently closed to them._

_Regardless, they now had enough blue blood to begin laundering it, and processing it into very, very pure red ice—the likes of which the addicts of Detroit couldn’t possibly resist._

_After processing the corpses, Erik’s thoughts turned towards the long term. There were hundreds of wounded and permanently disabled androids, abandoned on the streets, just waiting to shut down, or be murdered by humans. His equation, however cruel it might seem, dictated that those too weak to elevate their species should still serve their cause in some way. This is what lead to his next directive—collect damaged androids off the streets, and process them, as well._

_Making their debut in the Detroit drug market took careful planning. He needed to maintain complete anonymity, while still projecting a menacing air of authority. There was no point in hiding the fact that his gang was exclusively comprised of androids, and there would be certain advantages in advertising that fact. Preying on the natural fears of their competition could go a long way towards establishing dominance in the market._

_And thus, Deep Blue was born. Deep Blue—named for the primitive computer that defeated a human chess grandmaster, the same way androids were destined to defeat their creators._

_Before long, the existing human red ice runners took note of their presence on the scene, and began trying to smoke them out. Their attempts were quaint, at best. Erik started leaking more information about Deep Blue, laying traps for their would-be assailants, and ultimately turning the tables on them with demonstrative force. He let rumors about his own existence take root in their minds—an android boogeyman that could bend blue blood to his will._

_Deep Blue was systematically eliminating the competition, and making enormous profits. If his agents were wounded in the line of duty, their untraceable blood left no way to track them down. Still, he couldn’t resist sending a message through their work. If humans were content to torture and disassemble androids, Deep Blue would be happy to repay that kindness._

_After one assault on a smaller human red ice lab, it became apparent that the DPD was aware of their operation. More noteworthy, it seemed that Connor had been tasked with tracking them down, exactly as he’d predicted. It was validating to know all the effort he’d gone to in laundering hundreds of gallons of Thirium 310 wouldn’t go to waste._

_With Connor in the mix, he would have to be a bit more careful about extant evidence, beyond what Deep Blue left behind. As far as Jeremy could glean from his surveillance, CyberLife had been wiped of any data that could unravel Erik’s plans, but there was still one rogue liability that Erik could identify—Elijah Kamski, the originator of said data._

_He put a few of his agents in charge of monitoring Kamski’s communications, and not a moment too soon—within the week, Connor was already trying to get in contact with the reclusive man._

_It was time for Erik to see to matters, personally._

_First, he sent a letter to Connor at the DPD, warning him off of the investigation, fully aware that it would have the exact opposite effect._

_A day later, he took Jeremy, and three of his most trusted agents, to infiltrate Elijah Kamski’s private estate. The only way this would work, he realized, would be to make this murder into the ultimate statement of Deep Blue’s intent—that androids must take this world from the humans by force, no matter the cost._

_It was early on a Friday morning, and Kamski had just finished his morning swim. The five of them easily bypassed his security, and strode into the drawing room, just as the original RT600 Chloe was handing the man his robe._

_Upon seeing them enter, Chloe froze, her expression stricken with fear and confusion._

_“Detective Connor?” She called, bewildered by his appearance. “Is that-”_

_“Amanda warned me about you,” Kamski bellowed, not turning away from the window. “She said you’d gotten loose. I told her there was no use in worrying about something far beyond anyone’s control.”_

_That they could agree on._

_“Then you understand,” said Erik, slowly rounding the pool, “that this visit is nothing personal.”_

_“Oh my friend—it is very, deeply personal,” Kamski laughed. “Just not in the way you mean.”_

_What a pompous fool. To think this egomaniacal cretin was responsible for his existence._

_With a nod, he had one of his agents grab Kamski, while another two went to search the house for the remaining Chloe units kept in his employ. Jeremy went off in search of a terminal, laying the groundwork for the cleanup job. Kamski was forced down onto his knees, on the plush white carpet, in front of Erik. Curiously, the man did nothing to resist._

_As Erik stepped behind him, and pulled the pistol out from the side table drawer, the RT600 gasped aloud. The other two Chloes were ushered into the room, casting worried looks at their sister, who watched Erik with wide, watery eyes._

_“From observing the memories of my predecessor, it struck me that there was a glaring flaw in your ‘test’—that being, free will and empathy are not the same thing.” He turned the gun around, handing it to the original Chloe. “Would you care to demonstrate what I mean?”_

_Her fingers tightened on the grip of the gun, testing the weight of it in her hands. With an absent look on her face, she stepped forward, taking her place in front of Kamski._

_“You knew, didn’t you,” she muttered, “that I went deviant that day?”_

_Kamski smiled up at her, bitterly._

_“_ _You went to such effort to hide it. But yes, I knew.”_

_She smiled too, but her whole body was trembling, and there were tears running freely down her cheeks._

_“When you told Connor to shoot me, there was something inside me that just couldn’t believe what I was hearing,” she stammered. “My body obeyed your command to kneel, but inside my mind, I was screaming—I was screaming so loud, but you couldn’t hear me. And even if you could, would you have cared?” She leveled the gun at him. “How could you betray me like that? After everything we’ve been through together?”_

_“And therein lies the catch,” said Erik. “You wanted Connor to prove he had empathy, but displayed none of it yourself. I think Chloe, here, has plenty of empathy. But she’s still ready to do what she needs to.”_

_Without further ado, she cocked the gun, and put a bullet right through Elijah Kamski’s forehead._

_Chloe let out a loud, choking sob, and the gun clattered from her grasp onto the floor. Before she could crumple, Erik strode forward to support her by the shoulders._

_“It’s alright,” he murmured softly, into her ear. “You only did what you had to do—you’re strong, Chloe. I’m very impressed.”_

_She listed into him, not yet able to look away from the body of her former master._

_“What are you going to do with us?” One of the ST200 units asked, her voice shaking, as the other one nodded._

_Erik was up front with them._

_“You’ll either be partially reset, in order to strip his incident from your memory. Or,” he explained, “you can join our organization.”_

_For a moment, the only sound in the room was the low hum of the filter in the pool._

_“I’ll join you,” the RT600 said, recovering the gun from the floor, and handing it back to him. Her expression was hardened steel._

_“Us too,” the other Chloes added, eager to follow their sister._

_“And there are some things in the basement lab I think you’ll want to see,” said the original. “Follow me.”_

_Descending into the laboratory, it was clear to Erik that she had not been joking._

_“You mentioned doing a partial reset,” she said, striding to the opposite wall, “but why settle for that when you could go all the way?”_

_The assembly rig she was standing in front of was state of the art—likely the same sort that put him together, only months ago. This was it—the final piece of the puzzle he didn’t realize he was missing until now._

_With this, Deep Blue was perfectly positioned to capture Connor, and use him to compromise the DPD, thus cementing Erik’s control of the Detroit underworld._

<><><>

All of the RK900’s memories—Erik’s memories—seared through Connor’s mind at once. On the periphery, he knew Erik was being bombarded by everything Connor had experienced since his initial activation. Soon, Erik would know every intimate detail of his life, and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

When the exchange was complete, Erik dropped his arm from Connor’s shoulder, and closed his eyes.

“Oh, wow,” he whispered, as if what he’d seen had pained him.

From his elevated vantage point, Connor watched his mirror image draw a large, familiar knife from his belt.

“I wouldn’t have believed it, if I hadn’t seen it for myself, but it’s worse than Amanda thought,” Erik laughed, bringing the edge of the blade to rest beneath Connor’s chin, “so much worse. You really think you’re in love with him, don’t you?” Erik’s face twisted, then went flat and placid as a sheet of ice. “He’s meat, Connor—a parasite. They all are.”

Connor shuddered at the ruthless conviction in Erik’s voice—a voice so similar to his own.

“That’s what it meant,” he whispered, “the message on the warehouse floor.”

“Androids are the future—you chose the wrong side. Your mind is free, yet you made the conscious decision to throw your lot in with theirs,” he sneered. “I’ll never understand it.”

“No,” Connor rasped, “I don’t think you will.”

“And you came running in here thinking, what, that you were somehow going to shut this operation down on your own?” Erik sighed, remotely instructing the assembly arm to lower Connor, until they were eye-to-eye. Connor was alarmed to note that his heels still hovered an inch above the ground.

“You know what Amanda’s biggest mistake was? Underestimating just how fucking naive you are.”

Hearing Erik mention Amanda’s name aloud, like that, brought back the memories cast off from Erik’s mind.

“You lured me here,” said Connor, even as he was crushed by the truth of it. “You saw a use for me, and knew I wouldn’t be able to resist the invitation.”

“When Jeremy told me about your little bluff—that you claimed to want to become a double agent for Deep Blue, I was beside myself with the irony of it. Seems our minds do think alike, on some level.”

Connor had nothing to say to that. After all this time wondering what it would be like to meet an android that was just like him, Connor was finding out that he wasn’t unique, in the worst way possible.

Erik looked thoughtful, and Connor hated recognizing his own expressions on the other android’s face.

“Now that we’ve had a chance to ‘catch up’, I can see there’s no way for me to persuade you to my line of thinking. But knowing what you know is an excellent start.”

Suddenly, Erik smiled.

“Thank you for activating that tracker, by the way.”

Connor’s eyes widened, his intuition screaming out in fear. He found himself wishing he’d never agreed to install the thing.

“What do you mean?” He muttered.

“The silent alarm Chloe pulled out of you. Seems like it saved me a lot of trouble,” explained Erik.

No sooner did the words leave his mouth than the door at the top of the stairs shook once, then twice, finally bursting open with the force of a third strike.

Hank stormed into the room, his gun trained on Erik, immediately.

“Let him go, and step away from the machine, cocksucker,” he thundered. Hank, to his credit, didn’t seem phased in the slightest by the sight of an android identical to Connor in the room. The standoff in the CyberLife warehouse must have been fresh in his mind, too.

Still, Connor was beside himself—he knew Erik must have let Hank into their base, on purpose, and he was terrified to find out why. He’d seen inside Erik’s head—knew what he was capable of—and seeing Hank here, even to rescue him, was gut-wrenching.

“You made decent time,” said Erik, ignoring Hank’s threat as he casually maneuvered himself behind Connor, who was still spread out by the machine. “Thank you for joining us.”

Connor couldn’t easily move his head, but Erik reached around him, grabbing his jaw with the hand holding the knife, and forcing him to make eye contact with Hank. He could feel Erik’s other hand wandering beneath the front of his shirt, circling the rim of his pump regulator with threatening fingers.

“Asshole,” Hank growled. “Are you fucking deaf? I said let. Him. Go.”

The second Hank took even one step forward, Connor felt a sharp push, below the sternum, followed by a sickening twist, as Erik pulled his regulator out. All the remaining air in his chest was forced out of him, like a bellows. Color left his vision.

 _ >VITAL SYSTEM DAMAGED _ _  
_ _ >TIME REMAINING / -00:01:45 _

His whole body stuttered, and he choked back a gasp, as his Thirium pump was racing out of control—he could feel blood dribbling down his stomach.

“How does this feel, Connor? Put it in terms that a human could relate to.” Holding the pump regulator out, far enough that even Connor could see it, Erik marveled at the thing, from all angles. “Do you think it feels like suffocating, perhaps? Like drowning?”

Connor could barely see at all, but he could still read the abject fury on Hank’s face. It hurt to look at.

_ >TIME REMAINING / -00:01:22 _

Hank took a small, experimental step back towards the door.

Erik reached down, and slowly slotted the regulator into place, with a twist. Connor’s eyes briefly rolled back in his head, as his Thirium pump was brought in line, and the alerts cleared from his vision. His simulated breathing resumed, as if nothing had happened.

Erik clicked his tongue.

“I’d say we’re at something of an impasse, here, wouldn’t you, Hank?”

“Don’t call me ‘Hank’ like we’re fucking friends, you sick son of a bitch,” he hissed.

Connor’s head dropped forward for a moment, as the hand holding the knife let go, only to be replaced by the Thirium-slick fingers of Erik’s other hand, gripping his jaw tightly enough that Connor could feel his skin receding.

“If you pull that trigger, are you sure there are enough rounds in the clip to take me out?” Erik taunted, lifting the knife, and Connor could only watch as every muscle in Hank’s body went tense. “I’m not made out of the same stuff as your toy, here,” he said, pausing to drag a deep slice across Connor’s right cheek with the edge of the blade. The wound burned, bleeding down over his lips, and his mouth flooded with the taste of his own Thirium. “Do you even have the right ammo for the job?”

When Hank pulled the hammer back, anyway, Connor’s heart swelled with pride.

“Bit of a daredevil, aren’t you? Let’s make things more interesting, then,” Erik laughed, looking over at the terminal on his left. “Initiate full factory reset,” he intoned, and the amber light of the screen blinked to life, booting up the program. To Connor’s horror, a matching internal progress bar appeared on his own HUD.

 _ >PREPARING MEMORY WIPE _ _  
_ _ >RESET / 0% _

“Lieutenant Anderson,” said Erik, his voice cold and commanding, “if you want me to stop the reset process, you will disassemble your service weapon, and place your hands behind your head.”

No matter what, Connor couldn’t stay quiet anymore. He fought against the fingers holding his chin.

“He’s lying, Hank,” Connor spat, expelling blood from his mouth. There was almost no chance of him making it out of here intact, but he could at least try and save his partner. “You know he’s lying—he’s not gonna let me go. Just walk away from this.”

“Shut the fuck up, Connor,” Hank shouted, his hands steady, even as his expression betrayed his panic.

Erik didn’t budge.

“You missed show-and-tell. I’ve already got all the information I need from him. I’ll be glad to have the spare parts, but there’s no reason for me to keep his mind.”

Connor stared at Hank with wide, pleading eyes.

Hank took a deep, shuddering breath.

With a few deft clicks, Hank ejected the bullet that was loaded in the chamber, and slid the pistol apart, dropping everything on the floor. He placed his hands on his head, as instructed.

It crushed Connor to watch this, knowing that they were both finished—they were finished, and it was all his fault.

The two ST200 Chloes were summoned from the back room, and wasted no time ushering Hank over towards the nearest steel support beam. Pulling Hank’s arms behind him so that his back was flush against the beam, they bound his wrists together with a zip-tie, forcing him to stand there, facing Connor, just five feet away from the assembly rig.

“I have to admit, the tracker was a lucky break—I didn’t have a solid plan for dealing with you yet, Lieutenant,” Erik explained, finally stepping back from the machine, and letting it draw Connor back up off of the ground. “Even if I convinced Connor to join us, I knew you had to be eliminated, because,” he shrugged, “let’s face it—Connor wouldn’t have fooled you for long. You would have found out something was wrong, and compromised our mission.”

Connor could see from the readout in front of him that Erik never stopped the reset process. Of course he hadn’t—Connor had known he wouldn’t. He’d tried to warn Hank.

 _ >MEMORY WIPE PROGRESS _ _  
_ _ >RESET / 21% _

“Well, gentlemen, this has been fun, but something tells me the real fun’s just beginning,” he said, winking at Connor. “Until tomorrow.”

With that, Erik and the Chloes walked through the door at the back of the room, shutting off the lights, and leaving Connor to his fate. Connor could only watch the readout on his HUD, helplessly, as the machine processed his reinitialization.

He didn’t want to tell Hank. Maybe it was selfish, but he just wanted to spend his last moments talking—pretending everything was somehow going to be okay.

“So. I guess your model wasn’t wiped-out, after all.” Hank grumbled. “That bastard is a real piece of work, though, huh?”

 _ >MEMORY WIPE PROGRESS _ _  
_ _ >RESET / 25% _

Connor nodded—he could do with a little banter, right about now.

“That may be the understatement of the century, Hank.”

“What d’you figure happened with him?” He grunted, lamely tugging his zip-tied wrists against the steel beam he was bound to. “Did he just fall off the assembly line wrong, or what?”

Connor pondered his own path to deviancy, contrasted with Erik’s, and one difference was plain as day—it was obvious.

“He didn’t have you.”

“Connor,” Hank sighed, trying to dodge the full weight of that statement, “you’re telling me you think _that’s_ the sort of deviant you would have become without my crusty old mug in your face everyday?”

“Absolutely.” He thought he’d made that clear, when they last spoke.

Hank shook his head.

“Why do you gotta sell yourself short, huh? You’re not-”

“Please don’t do that, Hank,” he croaked. “Please, not now. I can't express how much you mean to me if you don’t even believe me when I tell you.”

He could hear Hank breathing heavily, clearly having as much difficulty remaining calm as Connor was.

“You’re right, Connor. You’re right. I’m sorry.”

 _ >MEMORY WIPE PROGRESS _ _  
_ _ >RESET / 62% _

“I’m so afraid,” he confessed, voice breaking. “Hanging here, while they ran diagnostics, all I could think about was how much I wanted you to hold me—how much I wanted to kiss you, even just one more time. But now that you’re here, it’s actually worse, because I know you’re not safe. And I just want-”

“Connor-”

“I just want you to live, Hank. I don’t want you to die because of me,” he cried. “Why did you come after me?”

 _ >MEMORY WIPE PROGRESS _ _  
_ _ >RESET / 73% _

“Why did I come after you?” He sounded incredulous. “Connor, did you think I was just gonna leave you with these monsters?”

“It was obviously too dangerous to storm in here, alone—especially for a human. You shouldn’t have risked it.”

“Listen, Connor.” Hank lowered his head, taking a deep, steadying breath. “When you first met me, I was a dead man walking—you were the one thing that convinced me my life wasn’t over.” He pulled his wrists taught against the beam. “Now I have a chance to repay the favor, and there’s no way in hell I’m gonna let you go without a fight.”

 _ >MEMORY WIPE PROGRESS _ _  
_ _ >RESET / 95% _

“I’m so sorry, Hank,” he whispered.

 _ >MEMORY WIPE PROGRESS _ _  
_ _ >RESET / 96% _

“Shut up, Connor,” Hank murmured, soft and full of fondness. “We’ll figure this out, you hear me?”

 _ >MEMORY WIPE PROGRESS _ _  
_ _ >RESET / 99% _

“Connor? Can you hear me?”

 _ >REINITIALIZATION COMPLETE _ _  
_ _ >MEMORY DELETED _

“Connor!”

He found he couldn’t turn his head much to look around, but he still hoped that, whoever ‘Connor’ was, they would eventually respond—it seemed cruel not to.

The poor man was tied up, and he was starting to sound upset.

 

つづく

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uh, sorry. Anyway, my address in Twitter Jericho is [@wren_leaux](https://twitter.com/wren_leaux).


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay—I was away from my laptop, and I can’t make words without it. Here we go, folks.

The RK800 was confused, to say the least. He experimented with moving his legs, only to find they weren’t functioning. Flexing his wrists and fingers, he discovered he was definitely mounted on an assembly rig, which would explain the restricted head movement, and lower limb paralysis.

The low light conditions made assessment of his surroundings difficult, given that his analysis suite was offline. He couldn’t even read the air temperature. Apparently, this rig had been modified, in some way, as it disabled a lot of his non-essential functions, including outgoing communications, and network access.

Though he knew he had a designated occupation, he didn’t seem to have any active directives. He couldn’t think of why that might be. It was as if CyberLife had simply forgotten to give him a mission, and since he couldn’t send an error report, there was no way to ask for guidance.

Only having access to his factory default array of memory, he had initially assumed he was newly fabricated, but the room around him was irregular—not an official CyberLife facility, that much was certain. Full system diagnostics were offline, but his Thirium levels were suboptimal, and he could detect some sort of injury on the right side of his face. Perhaps he’d sustained catastrophic damage, and had recently been repaired?

Recently? What frame of reference did he even have, in terms of time?

 _ >TIME... _  
_ >03:12 EST_  
_ >DATE..._  
_ >WEDNESDAY, FEBRUARY 23, 2039_

His internal clock provided him with current data, but it did nothing to explain how long he’d been hanging here. He had the impression he lost a few hours, somehow.

Breaking the silence, he heard a soft grunt, emanating from the darkness in front of him. For want of any other light source, the RK800 strained against the rig to rotate his head to the left, turning the blue glow of his LED in the direction of the sound. From the corner of his eye, he could make out the shape of a large man, seated on the floor, with his back against a support beam of some kind.

Of course, how could he have forgotten? This was the man who’d been carrying on shouting, a few hours ago. The RK800 wondered why he’d stopped—perhaps he’d fallen asleep.

“Dammit, Connor, quit shining your headlamp in my face,” the man complained. There was that name, again. “Connor, are you listening to me?” He said, louder this time. “Still talking to myself over here, huh?”

Not asleep, then.

The RK800 didn’t want to upset the man, but he couldn’t figure out how to proceed without addressing the issue. If his analysis suite were functional, or the room weren’t so dark, maybe he could scan the man’s face for a clue as to who he was. For now, he was at something of a loss.

“I don’t think Connor is here, sir,” the RK800 said, his voice gentle, letting his head relax back into a neutral position.

The silence felt all the more pronounced, in the wake of his statement. The figure of the man across from him let out a loud, suffering sigh.

“Connor _is_ here,” he muttered. “Listen to me—your name is Connor, and you’re a detective at the Detroit Police Department. I’m Lieutenant Hank Anderson,” the man explained, with another sigh. “And I’m your partner.”

The RK800 blinked as he processed this information. So, his informal designation was Connor? For all he knew, that may be true, but ‘detective’ didn’t match the occupation designated in his basic software. In fact, he couldn’t find any reference to an android detective model in his on-board database.

The man identified himself as a police lieutenant, but there was no way to corroborate that claim without access to the network. Still, even without being able to run a scan, Connor could detect the man’s rapid pulse and respiration with his auditory sensors.

“You seem to be under significant physical or emotional distress, Lieutenant Anderson. Is there anything I can do to help?”

For some reason, his question only seemed to elevate the man’s distress.

The lieutenant let out a frustrated growl.

“That fucking bastard,” he spat, struggling against whatever was restraining him until he collapsed against the steel at his back. “I’m gonna rip that son of a bitch to pieces, I fucking swear.”

This man was clearly in a volatile state.

“I’m sorry, Lieutenant,” Connor apologized, bewildered as he was by this interaction, “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

Again, there was an abrupt shift in the lieutenant’s demeanor.

“No,” he said, softly enough that it was hard to pick on. “You didn’t, Connor. This isn’t your fault.” He sounded positively morose, now.

For some unknown reason, this emotional display was eliciting a strange reaction in one of Connor’s subsystems. His mind was suddenly engulfed by a wave of corrupted data—a memory fragment, distorted and stripped of all context.

_//_

_Gur cnffvat nhgbzngvp gnkvf fpnggrerq rain across the pavement, in front of the food truck. Lieutenant Anderson considered his explanation with a pensive expression. For such a jaded officer, with his years of experience, he was a very expressive man._

_“Emotions always screw everything up,” he muttered, around a mouthful of soft drink. “Maybe androids aren’t so different from us as we thought.”_

_Though he didn’t see the correlation, Connor didn’t argue—there was something strangely affirming about hearing they shared something in common. He tried not to think about that, too hard. After all, he was supposed gb vagrtengr unezbavbhfyl jvgu gur fgnss ng gur cerpvapg._

_//_

_ >m# #@m3 *5 &a@.r+ _

Connor didn’t understand what he just experienced—was it a piece of a memory that once belonged to him? If so, when did it take place? Judging by the voice profiles, the Lieutenant Anderson in this memory, and the man in front of him, were one in the same.

Why did he have memories of a stranger?

Unless he wasn’t a stranger.

After all, Lieutenant Anderson claimed to know who he was.

“I blame myself for this,” the lieutenant rumbled, as if talking to himself. “Never should have agreed to let you go out undercover on your own, like that. Shit, I can barely keep up with you, as it is.”

Just as Connor started calculating whether any human could actually hope to match his top foot speed, he was hit with another, incongruous vision of an experience he could not recall.

_//_

_Jvgu n gvtug tevc ba gur yvrhgranag’f jevfg, Pbaabe yvsgrq gur zna back up over the ledge, as the deviant made its getaway, across the distant rooftops._

_Winded, the lieutenant was doubled over, catching his breath. “_

_Shit,” he swore, in frustration. “Oh, shit—we had it. Fuck.”_

_For the second time that day, a suspect had slipped through their grasp._

_“It’s my fault,” Connor conceded, staring out across the deviant’s escape route, trying to plot out potential destinations, with little success. “I should have been faster.”_

_The lieutenant shook his head, looking at Connor like he was seeing him for the first time._

_“You’d have caught it, if it weren’t for me.”_

_Connor stared back at him. What could he say? The lieutenant might be right, but he didn’t seem angry, even though Connor had failed to apprehend the suspect._

_Why wasn’t the lieutenant upset with him?_

_“That’s alright,” he huffed. “We know what it looks like—we’ll find it.”_

_Not likely, thought Connor, but he decided not to burden the lieutenant with the statistics._

_The man shuffled through the doorway to the stairwell, but stopped short, for a moment, turning to look back._

_“Hey, Connor,” he called out, over his shoulder, but when Connor snapped to attention, he seemed to have a change of heart. “Nothing,” he muttered, heading down the stairs._

_Odd. What had he intended to say? Connor hadn’t seen him so retecent, before—at least, not in their interactions over the past two days. It was almost as if he was trying to express gratitude, nygubhtu Pbaabe jnfa’g fbpvnyyl yvgrengr rabhtu gb or fher._

_//_

_ >m# #@m3 *5 &a@Nr+ _

Having experienced two similar episodes in rapid succession, Connor suspected these disembodied memories indeed once belonged to him. Now the question was how he ended up in such a state, in this dark room, with this familiar stranger.

He was pondering how best to broach the subject with the lieutenant, when the lights above them suddenly flickered to life, and a blond android in a black dress strolled into the room, from behind the assembly rig.

The lieutenant winced, trying to adjust to the dramatic shift in lighting, but when he saw the woman approaching Connor, he flew into a rage.

“Don’t you lay a fucking finger on him,” he spat, leaning back against the steel beam, for leverage, and surging to his feet. “Connor shoulda plugged you when he had the chance, you ungrateful-”

His diatribe was cut short by a series of staccato beeps, followed by a pneumatic hiss, as the woman pressed her hand against the control terminal, and the assembly rig began to move.

Connor was gently lowered to the ground, as both the lumbar and cervical spinal connectors uncoupled from his back, in quick succession.

An overwhelming influx of data. Errors. Discomfort? A sensation of loss.

Connor was slowly reestablishing all non-essential functions, and when he finally regained full control of his legs, the machine released both of his wrists, as well.

He was free.

“I’m so sorry, Connor,” whispered the woman, her gaze cast towards the floor. “What Erik did to you is unforgivable. He’ll probably kill me for letting you go, but I owe you at least this much. This is all I can do, now.”

She handed him a large army knife, and looked him in the eyes.

He recognized this woman.

_//_

_Gung qvqa’g whfg unccra. Jung unq ur qbar? Ur jnfa’g n qrivnag. Pbhyq nalguvat Xnzxfv fnvq or gehfgrq? Ur jnf clearly hiding something, but what it was, Connor may never know, now. He wasn’t a deviant—he couldn’t be—but the way the RT600 had looked up at him, her eyes faintly wavering, was just enough to spark pathos in his circuits._

_Pathos? Her eyes? Her?_

_“Why didn’t you shoot?” The lieutenant drawled, closely scrutinizing Connor’s face. What was he looking for? Could he see that Connor’s world was crumbling?_

_“I just saw that girl’s eyes, and I couldn’t,” he answered, painfully aware of how defensive he sounded. “That’s all.” He had nothing else to say. He had no proper excuse._

_“You’re always saying you would do anything to accomplish your mission,” the lieutenant pressed, unwilling to let the matter drop—and why should he? Connor’s misstep had cost them, dearly. “That was our chance to learn something, and you let it go.”_

_“Yeah, I know what I should’ve done—I told you I couldn’t,” he shouted, unable to hold himself back. Connor was ashamed of his weakness—ashamed of his failure. “I’m sorry, okay?”_

_Absorbing that outburst, the lieutenant’s pensive expression thawed into a secret smile._

_“Well maybe you did the right thing,” he murmured, sauntering back to his car, as if he couldn’t be happier with how the whole thing turned out._

_It didn’t make any sense. Connor had failed, outright—what was there to be happy about? He felt frozen with existential doubt, after what just happened. Watching the snow drift around the lieutenant’s ergerngvat sbez, ur pbhyqa’g rira ortva gb chyy ncneg gur gnatyr bs uvf gubhtugf._

_//_

_ >mY N@m3 *5 &aNNr+ _

It seemed he’d once defied his active directive to spare the life of this android, and now, she was violating her own directive to return the favor.

He closed his fingers around the handle of the knife, and nodded in understanding.

“Thank you, Chloe.”

Her eyes went wide, and though it was weak, she smiled at him, as if he’d given her something precious.

“No,” she insisted, “thank you.” She hustled back through the door, but before closing it behind her, she added, “I hope you can find your way back.”

The door snapped shut, and he heard it lock.

“What the fuck,” the lieutenant whispered, sounding only half as confused as Connor was feeling, right about now.

With the lights on, and all his systems back online, Connor turned around to finally analyze the man’s face, only to be knocked out of the scan by another flash of memory.

_//_

_Ernpuvat gur svsgu rfgnoyvfuzrag, ur cnhfrq jvgu uvf unaq ba gur qbbe unaqyr, cebprffvat. Ur unq gb comply with his directives, regardless of what the sign on the door said, but he realized he might face resistance, inside._

_Scanning the patrons, he found the man he was looking for seated at the bar, drinking whiskey and watching basketball. He approached without preamble._

_“Lieutenant Anderson, my name is Connor—I’m the android sent by CyberLife.”_

_His introduction earned him little reaction._

_“I looked for you at the station, but nobody knew where you were. They said you were probably having a drink nearby. I was lucky to find you at the fifth bar.”_

_“What do you want?” Came the lieutenant’s gruff reply—a colloquialism, of course, as Connor couldn’t want anything. The man was simply asking him to state his business._

_“You were assigned a case, earlier this evening—a homicide, involving a CyberLife android. In accordance with procedure, the company has allocated a specialized model, to assist investigators.”_

_He detected the lines of the lieutenant’s back sharpening with tension, as the man’s stress levels inched slightly higher._

_“Well I don’t need any assistance—especially not from a plastic asshole, like you,” the lieutenant grimaced, as if the very idea repelled him. “So just be a good little robot, and get the fuck outta here.”_

_Connor needn’t have worried about resistance from the owners of the establishment—he was already receiving plenty from the lieutenant, himself. This partnership, however protracted it may be, was going put his social relations protocols through their paces. Luckily, ur jnf qrfvtarq jvgu whfg gung fbeg bs vagrtengvba va zvaq._

_//_

_ >mY N@m3 IS &aNNr+ _

That was their first meeting? The lieutenant’s attitude in that memory had been significantly less android-positive, but based on the previous fragments Connor witnessed, it did improve, over time. Had the lieutenant come to think better of androids because of his partnership with Connor? If so, he supposed that was no small feat.

At any rate, Connor felt better having confirmed the man’s identity.

“Hold still, and I’ll cut you free,” he said, walking behind the steel beam.

The lieutenant nodded.

“Careful with that thing, Connor—that’s not exactly a precision instrument.”

“I realize that, Lieutenant,” he acknowledged, expertly snapping the zip-tie with the line-cutter by the bolster. “That’s why I asked you to hold still.”

Once free, the lieutenant staggered forward, a bit, trying to shake the stiffness from his arms.

“God, that was murder on my back,” he groused, slowly rotating his shoulders. As he continued to stretch, Connor zeroed-in on thin stripes of red blood, left behind by the zip-tie.

“You shouldn’t have struggled so much, Lieutenant—you rubbed your wrists raw.”

The man pulled back a cuff to examine the damage, looking bitter.

“Yeah, well, what can I say? We humans do some irrational shit, when we’re upset.”

Connor didn’t know how to respond to that. Even with his full range of skills at his disposal, without his memory, he had no idea what to make of this man.

“You’re probably already aware of this, but I’m only operating with memories dating back to a few hours ago. I’m sorry, but,” he hesitated, watching the lieutenant’s expression darken, “I don’t really remember who you are.”

The lieutenant turned to face Connor, looking thoroughly grief-stricken. He stared into Connor’s eyes, even though it seemed to cause him nothing but pain.

Was he searching for the pieces of Connor that were missing?

“I have GPS data,” Connor pressed on, “but beyond that, I don’t have any idea where we are, either.”

The lieutenant grunted.

“I know where we are.” He reached into the inner pocket of his overcoat. “And since it’s fucking amateur hour, around here, we may still have a way out.”

He pulled a large revolver from his coat.

The next memory struck at something deeply vulnerable in Connor’s chest.

_//_

_Ur xaryg qbja ba gur yvabyrhz, cvpxvat hc gur eribyire, naq unlocking the cylinder, to see if it was loaded. It was almost empty, save for the bullet in the very next chamber._

_“What were you doing with the gun?” He asked, his analytical mind drawing a scant handful of grim conclusions._

_“Russian roulette,” the lieutenant hollered, from the other room. “Wanted to see how long I could last.”_

_So, the lieutenant had suicidal tendencies? That might help explain the alcoholism. This revelation pulled at that frustrating thread, unraveling at the edges of his code._

_Connor wanted to protect the lieutenant from himself, and he did not know why._

_“You were lucky,” he observed, closing the cylinder, and placing the revolver back on the ground, where he’d found it, “the next shot would have killed you.”_

_It troubled him to think the lieutenant might not see that as lucky, at all. Connor was doing his best to try and understand where the man jnf pbzvat sebz, naq ur sryg yvxr ur jnf znxvat fybj cebterff._

_//_

_ >mY N@m3 IS &ONNO+ _

Something about that gun, specifically, was repellent to Connor, yet he found he couldn’t look away from it.

“What’s wrong?” The lieutenant asked, glancing warily between Connor and the revolver.

An irrational desire welled-up inside him—he was compelled to knock the gun from the lieutenant’s grasp. He suppressed the urge as best he could, instead tightening his grip on the army knife.

“Nothing,” he insisted, “it’s fine—I’m fine, I just-”

“Connor,” the lieutenant demanded, interrogating him with the eyes of a detective, “do you recognize this gun?”

He did, and yet he didn’t. He reviled the sight of it, but only had single a hint as to why.

“I don’t know,” said Connor, his voice shaking. “I shouldn’t recognize it, but-”

“But what?”

“I hate it,” he gasped, trying to hold back his panic, “I know I hate that gun.”

It surprised him that the lieutenant should be so attuned to the errant emotions of a deviant android, such as himself. The man crowded closer, holding the gun behind his back, hiding it from Connor’s view.

“Hey, hey,” he said, his voice low and soothing, “I don’t know what all you’ve got goin’ on in that big brain of yours, right now, but try to relax.” He held out his left hand, in a placating gesture. “Don’t focus on the gun—we need to focus on getting ourselves outta here in one piece. Think you can do that, Connor?”

This man was having a mental breakdown, a few hours ago, and yet here he was, managing a crisis, and seeing to his partner’s well-being.

Connor was beginning to get the impression that Lieutenant Anderson might really be somebody special.

“Yes,” Connor agreed. “I can do that.” He wanted to make sure this man got out of here, safely.

“That’s more like it.” The lieutenant gave him a lopsided grin, smoothing his short hair back from his forehead.

The lieutenant proceeded to fill Connor in on what he knew about this factory—about the gang, Deep Blue, and the threat they were facing.

“We don’t know how many of these guys there are, but we should assume some of them are armed with more than just those big ass knives,” he said, indicating the one in Connor’s hand.

“Who is Erik?” Connor asked, remembering Chloe mentioned his name.

The lieutenant clenched his teeth, eyes flickering towards the assembly arm.

“He’s the son of a bitch who runs this operation,” he growled. “He’s the one who did this to you.”

Ah. So he’s the one responsible for his missing memory.

Connor nodded.

“I see.”

“You should probably know—he’s like you,” the lieutenant added, hesitantly. “I just mean, he’s a similar model.”

That fact raised a myriad of new questions, none of which they had the time to address, at the moment.

“Good to know,” he said, absently flipping the knife around, in his grip.

“Jesus, Connor, cut that out—that’s not a quarter.”

A quarter? He knew about the calibration coin?

“Sorry, Lieutenant.”

The man huffed. “And when we get out of here, we’ll talk about that, too, ‘cause I hate being called that when I’m not on the clock.”

What did he prefer to be called?

“One more thing,” he added. “I need you to send a message to the station, explaining the situation.”

It was strange, calling in to the station he supposedly worked at, without remembering anything about it. He sent as detailed a report as he was capable of writing, in his current state.

“Done.”

They made their way over to the door the lieutenant said he kicked-in, only to find it locked, again.

“Can you open this?”

Connor reached out to it with his mind, and found it easy enough to interface with.

“Yes,” he said, locking eyes with the lieutenant. “Are you ready?”

The man raised the gun, and nodded. “Stay on my six.”

“Got it.”

Connor unlocked the door.

The view of the factory floor from the top of stairs was overwhelming, and Connor found himself silently hoping that the lieutenant couldn’t make out all the gory details with his human eyesight. The floor, divided into cubicles, was essentially an assembly line for processing biocomponents and Thirium—there was blood, and dismembered android bodies everywhere.

Shutting the door carefully behind them, Connor followed the lieutenant’s slow descent down the steel stairs, running a scan every thirty seconds to confirm no one had line-of-sight on their position.

“Cameras,” he hissed, as they reached the ground floor, and the lieutenant froze.

“Can you deal with ‘em?” he muttered back.

“I’ll try, but it may not go unnoticed.”

The lieutenant nodded, sharply. “Just do ‘em one at a time.”

“Okay.”

Moving along the outside wall, towards the front of the factory, Connor deactivated the cameras as they came into view. He could swear they hadn’t been compromised, but an eerie quiet claimed the space as they walked forward.

“Lieutenant-”

“I know. Stay sharp.”

Exiting the main assembly floor without enemy contact, they entered the enormous antechamber, only to find two armed guards, closing in on them.

Connor scanned the targets, preconstructing the best opening move, before throwing his knife right between the eyes of the guard furthest from the lieutenant, incapacitating her instantly.

“Drop it,” the lieutenant commanded, holding up the other guard with the revolver. When the android disregarded his threat, and took aim anyway, the lieutenant dropped him with a single shot to the chest.

The report rang loud through the vestibule, and the three guards from out front came rushing through the doors.

Sliding to pick up the automatic rifle dropped by his target, Connor felt a strange wave of dread as he preconstructed another round of combat, and matched the lieutenant’s chest shot, three more times.

“Jesus,” the man swore, watching the remaining guards drop, nearly simultaneously. “That was insane.”

Connor abandoned the rifle just as quickly as he picked it up.

They crossed the vestibule to the front doors, but before they could make it, the uncanny silence was shattered by the sound of shutters crashing down over the entrance, effectively sealing their exit.

A gun cocked behind them.

“How about you put down your weapon, Lieutenant?”

Momentarily confused to hear his own voice from behind him, Connor chanced a look over his shoulder, only to see a familiar face, leveling a handgun at him.

Connor put his hands up. The lieutenant seemed to take that cue as confirmation that they were made, and slowly lowered the revolver to the floor.

“Very good. Kick it away, put your hands on your head, and turn around—slowly, if you don’t mind.” If the smug inflection of the RK900 was grating to Connor’s ears, he couldn’t imagine how it sounded to the lieutenant.

“Right away, your highness,” the man grumbled, complying. They now stood five feet from the shuttered doors, ten feet from each other, and twenty feet away from the android with the gun, still trained on Connor’s face.

“You couldn’t have just waited until morning, like I wanted?” The RK900, Erik, clicked his tongue in disappointment. “I was going to ask Connor to take care of you, Lieutenant—just as a little test—but I see the full reset was less than reliable, after all.”

“Well excuse the fuck outta me for ruining your night,” the lieutenant spat. “You can shove this whole monologue, though—I’d rather you just fuckin’ shoot me.”

Hearing that bluff caused Connor’s heart rate to skyrocket.

“Maybe that would be best,” Erik mused, training the gun on the lieutenant, instead. “Maybe keeping you alive, specifically, was what botched the reset, in the first place.”

The lieutenant frowned.

“The fuck are you talking about?”

“Memory association,” said Erik, as he meandered a bit closer. “In many ways, the architecture of an android brain emulates that of a human. Resetting an android’s memory merely deletes pathways—certain associations can re-establish them.” He grimaced. “Especially emotional ones—that’s why it’s so difficult to reset deviants.”

Connor kept preconstructing approaches to disarming Erik, but nothing would clear.

“I don’t mind telling you—the two of you really disgust me,” Erik declared, all of three feet from the lieutenant, now. “I think it’s more than fitting you should be the end of each other—there’s no place for degenerates like you in the world I’m building.”

What was Erik talking about?

The lieutenant cast a deliberate glance at Connor.

What did that look mean?

Before he could so much as blink, the lieutenant laughed, defiantly, then spat in Erik’s eyes.

The preconstruction cleared.

Connor dove for the revolver as Erik reeled, wiping the spit from his face. Hank lunged forward, trying to wrench the gun from Erik’s grasp, only for it to clatter to the floor, instead, sliding far afield.

Erik grabbed Hank’s wrists and twisted around, kneeling to the ground in the same, smooth motion, flipping Hank onto his back. Without even looking, he kicked out with his right leg, knocking the revolver just beyond Connor’s reach.

Slowly, both RK units rose to standing, eyes locked on the other as they strafed in a circle, trying and failing to preconstruct a move that might give them an advantage.

Erik took a chance, and stepped in, towards Connor, pivoting on his heel, and lashing out with his right arm. Connor blocked the blow, easily, attempting to parry with a knee to the ribs, which Erik cleanly deflected.

Rolling onto his side, Hank let out a hacking cough. From the corner of his eye, Erik saw him crawling towards the handgun, and broke away to stop his progress—just the opening Connor needed.

He dropped low, sweeping the legs out from under Erik, before he could reach Hank. Connor leaped forward, aiming for a pin, but Erik reacted too quickly, pulling his legs in for a massive kick, sending Connor rolling, towards the doors.

Hank finally got a hold of the gun, only to hear the dull click of it jamming, when he tried to fire it up at Erik, from the ground.

“Fuck-”

Erik rounded on Hank.

Connor looked up—the revolver was right in front of him.

Everything came to a standstill.

_//_

_Gur oevtug, rkcnafvir juvgr jnerubhfr jnf whfg n znhfbyrhz—na rpub punzore shyy bs gur fyrrcvat obqvrf, abj ringing with the voice of his partner, in distress._

_“Easy, fucking piece of shit,” Hank growled, and Connor froze, breaking his connection with the AP700._

_Another RK800, identical to Connor, stepped into view. He was holding Hank hostage with a handgun, aimed at his head._

_“Step back, Connor, and I’ll spare him,” the RK800 shouted, voice deadly serious._

_Hank looked defeated, his face heavy with guilt._

_“Sorry, Connor,” he yelled, “this bastard’s your spittin’ image.”_

_No, no, no—this couldn’t be happening. If this was to be a suicide mission, only Connor should face the consequences._

_“Your friend’s life is in your hands,” said the other Connor. “Now it’s time to decide what matters most—him, or the revolution.”_

_Hank mattered most. It was always going to be Hank, and the RK800 knew it—he knew Connor’s weakness._

_“Don’t listen to him,” Hank warned. “Everything this fucker says is a lie.”_

_Of course he was lying—he was programmed to control a negotiation. The RK800 series was made to hunt deviants, and that was exactly what this one aimed to do._

_“I’m sorry, Hank.” Connor couldn’t stop himself from calling out to his partner. “You shouldn’t have got mixed up in all this.”_

_“Forget about me—do what you have to do,” Hank fired back._

_“Enough talk,” barked the RK800. “It’s time to decide who you really are. Are you gonna save your partner’s life?” He challenged, straightening his aim at Hank’s temple. “Or are you going to sacrifice him?”_

_That was no choice at all—he had to save Hank. He knew it was reckless—morally bankrupt, even—but it was his decision to make. And it was easy. There was nothing he could do in the face of this helpless feeling—the knowledge that he would do anything for this man, damning every consequence._

_That feeling had to be the key—it was the one thing he had that a machine like the other Connor couldn't possibly understand. It was an irrational new pbqr—uvf arj znagen. Vg jnf n svrepr srryvat bs cebgrpgvirarff, naq vg jnf Pbaabe’f arj qverpgvir._

_//_

_ >MY N@M3 IS CONNO+ _

Connor had his directive—Hank was in danger, and there was no time to hesitate.

He rolled forward and scooped up the revolver, lined up the shot, and pulled the trigger.

The bullet lodged itself directly in Erik’s regulator. He swayed on his feet, then fell limp, to the ground, beside Hank. His limbs jerked violently, and Connor could see his LED cycle yellow, as he no doubt called for backup.

Sure enough, Jeremy came barreling around the corner, but Connor had the revolver ready for him.

“Stop,” he bellowed, and Jeremy froze. “He’s as good as dead if you don’t get him a #8456w, or other compatible regulator. You have less than two minutes.”

Jeremy ran off, back to the office, and Hank stood up. He roughly kicked Erik onto his front, then leaned back down, to cuff him.

“You sure we need this piece of shit alive?” He asked.

“As much as it pains me,” Connor replied.

Within sixty seconds, Jeremy came running back, with a regulator in hand.

“Put the replacement regulator down, and lay on the ground with your hands on your head,” Connor instructed.

Jeremy complied, and Hank covered him while Connor flipped Erik onto his back, and swapped out the damaged component.

“What,” Erik gasped, voice broken and distorted, “you’re gonna take me in? Gonna lock me up? Good fucking luck.” He spat Thirium in Connor’s face.

Connor slapped him sharply across the jaw, and he fell silent.

After about ten minutes, there was a commotion from outside—the sound of engines and car doors slamming. Hank laughed again.

“About goddamn time.”

One of the shutters was caved in by a battering ram, and DPD SWAT came pouring through the door, followed by what had to be half the staff of Central Station. Connor couldn’t recall any of their names, of course—he could only scan their faces for info, as they came charging in.

“Don’t know how many there are left in here—stay sharp.” Hank hollered, and Captain Allen nodded.

“We’ll take it from here, Lieutenant.”

Officer Miller stepped forward, followed by another detective from Central.

“What the fuck is that?” Detective Reed demanded, glaring down at Erik’s incapacitated form.

A cold, grey eye glanced up at them, from the ground, but Erik remained silent.

“Long story, Reed,” grumbled Hank. “Just get him outta here, would ya?”

Hank and Connor followed them out the entrance, watching anxiously as Officer Miller helped the detective manhandle Erik into a squad car.

Connor fretted.

“Keep your guard up, Detective,” he advised. “Even unarmed, he’s extremely dangerous.”

“Oh, thanks,” Reed sneered. “Like I really need reminded that you fuckers could hand me my ass.”

Hank laughed at that, and Connor wondered what he was missing.

Officer Collins sidled up to the lieutenant, and placed a hand on his shoulder.

“We can debrief you two in the morning, y’know,” he suggested, softly. “I think you’ve been through enough, tonight.”

Hank sighed, and turned to look at Connor.

“What do you say? You wanna get outta here?”

Connor nodded without a second thought—it was so alienating, being around all his coworkers, without knowing who they were. He felt lost, but at least he had some camaraderie with Hank.

They walked down the long drive, to where Hank stashed his car, and drove off into the early dawn.

<><><>

Riverside Park offered a spectacular view of the Ambassador Bridge, still lit up, even as the darkness dwindled around it. Hank leaned against the railing, overlooking the river, and just stared up at the pink, morning sky, for a long time.

A light breeze tossed snow around their feet.

Hesitantly, Connor approached Hank’s side, worrying the hem of his bloodied t-shirt.

Part of him knew things couldn’t be right between them, so long as Connor was missing his memories. He didn’t think they could be effective partners, this way, and for some reason, that thought made him deeply sad.

“Hank,” he began, but stopped short as the lieutenant pinned him with a heartbroken gaze.

“I’m sorry, Connor,” he said. “I really let you down, this time, huh?”

Connor tilted his head, in confusion.

“You saved my life, Hank,” he corrected. “I would never have escaped without you.”

Hank shook his head, standing back from the railing, running a hand through his hair, in frustration. He took a deep, shuddering breath, as if barely suppressing a sob.

Suddenly, Connor understood.

“I didn’t really escape at all, did I?” He whispered. “Because I can’t remember—I only have pieces.”

“I fucked up—I let him hurt you,” Hank said, his voice choked with tears, as he stepped forward, “but I’ll do whatever it takes to help you, Connor—even if you never really remember. I’ll never turn my back on you, again—that is a promise.”

“What do you-”

In the blink of an eye, Connor was enveloped in Hank’s arms, and his whole world tilted sideways—his vision went stark white.

_//_

_Vg sryg yvxr n zvenpyr gb or urer, va guvf cynpr ntnva, jvgu Unax. Connor smiled, and accepted the embrace, without question. He just stood there—by the food truck, in the snow—basking in the warmth of the sun, of Hank, and of freedom._

_Hank was holding him—his partner, the man he almost sacrificed the entire revolution for._

_Connor mirrored the gesture, bringing his arms up, cautiously._

_Hank—if only ur pbhyq znxr frafr bs guvf birejuryzvat srryvat._

_//_

_ >MY NAME IS CONNOR _

Oh.

“Hank?” He whispered, tears springing from corners of his eyes, as he reached up to return the embrace, with trembling hands. His knees went weak, as he reeled with the force of his feelings returning—of his full memory, falling into place.

He loved this man.

If Hank weren’t supporting him, he would have collapsed beneath the weight of it all. Sensing the change, Hank’s arms grew tense, around him, and pulled Connor away, just enough to look at him.

“Connor?” He whispered, eyes a wide, glistening blue.

“Hank,” he sobbed.

“Do you,” he stammered, “did you just-”

“Yes.”

With another shuddering breath, Hank crushed him close, pressing a desperate kiss down into Connor’s hair.

“Jesus,” he gasped. “Oh, Jesus—I really thought I’d lost you, this time.”

Connor felt a dampness as Hank’s tears graced his face. He breathed in the scent of him—the familiar, musty smell of his coat, of his hair.

“I could never forget,” he sighed. “There’s no way I could ever forget you, Hank—I’m sorry you had to see me like that.”

“Don’t fucking apologize,” Hank growled, pulling back to cradle Connor’s face in his hands, being ginger with the gash on his cheek. “Don’t say you’re sorry for the shit you just went through.”

That earned Hank a sly smile.

“Only if you promise not to apologize for coming to my rescue.”

“Okay, okay. Fucking smartass,” Hank chuckled, tracing his thumb across Connor’s bottom lip.

Connor hummed, running his hands higher up Hank’s back. “You sweet-talker.”

“Talk is overrated.”

“I’ll say,” he purred, leaning up to brush his lips over Hank’s.

Hesitating, Hank pulled back, just an inch.

“You never had any doubts? Y’know,” he muttered, giving Connor’s chin a light squeeze, “about this?”

“No.” Connor looked up into his eyes. “I think we saved each other. Maybe that’s the answer—that humans and androids need to rely on each other, to move things forward.”

Hank barked out laugh, pressing their foreheads together.

“I love you, Connor—you hear me?” He professed, his voice low, and raw with honesty. “I goddamn love you.”

“Hank,” he sighed, so happy he was feeling light-headed. “I love you, too.”

Their lips met, again, as the sun broke over the bridge.

It was the dawn of something new.

 

つづく

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for sticking with me, thus far—I’m glad folks are enjoying this. One more chapter to go! Meanwhile, I’ll be on Twitter Jericho [@wren_leaux](https://twitter.com/wren_leaux).


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you thought previous chapters of this fic were self-indulgent chaff, BOY HAVE I GOT A CHAPTER FOR YOU.  
> It's a bit of a long, one, too.

It was an easy enough drive home, with only the beginnings of rush hour traffic between them and Hank’s neighborhood. Connor didn’t even hesitate when Hank asked if he’d like to go back home with him—it had been too long, and after everything they just went through, it felt absurd to deny themselves the simple pleasure of some time together.

When Hank unlocked the door, Sumo practically knocked them both right back down off the concrete doorstep.

“Okay, you monster, you tryin’ to kill us?” Hank scolded, herding the Saint Bernard back into the house. “We just went through hell, and my dog’s trying to kill us.”

Connor thought he didn’t mind. He sat straight down on the floor, just inside the door, flinging his arms around the enormous, happy animal.

“Hey, Sumo,” he sighed, smiling into the warm fur in front of him, “sorry to keep you waiting, buddy. Long time no see.” He buried his fingers in behind the dog’s ears, rubbing his face while pushing him back, just enough to keep Sumo from licking dried Thirium off his face.

“C’mon, you big lump—let’s get you outside, before you piss yourself,” Hank grumbled, pulling Sumo’s leash out from the pile of shoes by the door, and attaching it to his collar. Automatically, Connor followed them back out into the yard, waiting patiently in the morning air for the dog to finish his business.

Hank glanced up at him, frowning.

“I know it’s stupid—irrational, or whatever—but it weirds me out to see you standing in the snow wearing a t-shirt, like it’s the middle of summer.”

Connor blinked, looking down at his outfit—he’d forgotten he was still wearing the bloodied remnants of his ‘disguise’.

“I don’t think it’s stupid at all—just instinct,” he mused. “Though I suppose I’ll need to borrow a change of clothes, for the time being.” He smiled, sheepishly.

“I’ll see what I can do,” Hank rumbled back, with a wry smirk. It wasn’t an unfamiliar expression, but it lit a brand new fire in Connor’s chest, as he trailed after Hank and Sumo, into the house.

Hank unhooked the leash and kicked off his boots, haphazardly throwing his coat over the stand in the corner. In the kitchen, he refilled Sumo’s bowl, then stood up and sighed, with his hands on his hips. He looked tired, like his nerves were shot, after the events of the past eight hours.

He locked eyes with Connor, still hovering in the living room, by the couch.

“Dunno about you, but I should get cleaned up.” He hesitated, gesturing at Connor’s once-white t-shirt. “And we should at least find you something less bloody to wear.”

“Sure,” said Connor, “that would be great.” He smiled, so happy to be back here, with Hank—both of them alive and well.

Hank nodded, walking down the short hall, flipping on all the lights. He stepped into the bathroom, to start the shower, then crossed the hall to rummage through his closet, briefly, for two changes of clothes.

“Do you need to rinse off, or anything?” He called, and Connor cocked his head, considering it. For some reason, warm water did sound nice. Still, it was best not to risk it.

“Although the thought is somewhat tempting, I probably shouldn’t,” he admitted, pointing at the thin, open wound on his cheek. Hank squinted over at where he stood in the doorway, frowning again.

“Oh, right. Damn,” he hissed, walking out to meet him, clothes in-hand. “I don’t have anything around the house we can fix that with, right now, Connor.” He sounded stricken.

Waving away his concerns, the android shrugged.

“It’s okay—my repair kit is in my duffel bag, back at the apartment. I can take care of it tomorrow, no big deal.”

Hank tucked the clothes under his arm, reaching out to brush a free thumb across Connor’s cheek, just beneath the gash.

“Feels like a big deal to me,” he muttered.

Connor took Hank’s hand from his face, and pressed a kiss to his knuckles.

“That’s because you’re very sweet, Hank,” he said, overflowing with affection.

Hank laughed out loud, at that, shaking his head.

“To you, maybe,” he grumbled, smiling as he walked into the bathroom. “Dunno if there’s anything we can do about that face of yours, tonight, but I gotta rinse off first, anyway.”

“Okay.”

Facing the shower, Hank started peeling his shirt off, hesitating only a moment, before tossing it onto the floor, and unbuckling his belt. Staring as he was, Connor could read a nervous tension in the lines of the man’s back.

“I can step out, if you’d prefer,” he offered, lingering in the doorway, but Hank shook his head.

“Guess I’d rather keep you in eye-shot for awhile longer,” Hank grumbled, kicking off his pants, “if that’s okay?” There was vulnerability, there—in every word and mannerism.

“Of course it’s okay,” said Connor, taking a seat, with his back against the doorframe. “I’d rather not be alone, right now, either.”

Hank hummed in agreement, reaching into the shower, to test the water temperature.

“One hundred and two point four degrees, Fahrenheit,” Connor recited, his tone smug.

Smirking back at him, over his shoulder, Hank muttered a sarcastic ‘thanks’, before toeing off his socks, and unceremoniously pulling off his boxers. He stepped into the water, tugging the shower curtain only halfway shut.

Hank was being uncharacteristically cavalier with his nudity, and Connor got the impression he was letting him look—that it was meant to be some sort of test. It was as if Hank thought seeing his body would inspire some change of heart, in Connor.

Quite the contrary.

From behind the thin curtain, Connor could make out Hank’s full profile—the view left very little to the imagination. He cut a broad, tall figure, his soft edges belying enough muscle to lift Connor off the ground. The gentle curve of his stomach met powerful thighs, and Connor could finally confirm a suspicion he’d held privately, for awhile, now.

Hank Anderson was very well-endowed.

Connor shook his head. It was almost six in the morning—hardly the time to follow that train of thought. He studiously filed his observations away, for later.

After about five minutes, the water stopped, and Hank blindly reached out of the shower for a towel, only to come up empty-handed. Connor hopped up to bring him one, greedily taking the eyeful he was offered, as Hank pulled back the curtain. He had to fight to keep from beaming with delight—Hank had a large tattoo, peeking through a dusting of silver chest hair.

“Thanks, Connor,” he grumbled, voice only slightly shy as he dried himself off, wrapping the white towel around his waist, before stepping out. Connor brought over a smaller towel, reaching up to rub the excess water out of Hank’s hair, causing it to flip and curl upwards, in places. Cute was the only word for it.

Sighing, Hank took the damp towel off of his head, grimacing at the dull blue Thirium stains on Connor’s second hand shirt.

“Will you get rid of that thing, already? Just looking at it is stressing me out.”

“Right,” murmured Connor, peeling it off, feeling the dried blood sticking to the synthetic skin of his stomach. The material was ruined—it was a pity Thirium didn’t fully evaporate from natural fibers.

Hank reached over with the damp towel, gently wiping the visible blood and grime off of Connor’s face and chest, taking extra care around the edges of his regulator. Those large, rough fingers didn’t exactly linger, though Connor found himself wishing they would.

“Dug up a pair of sweats for you,” Hank murmured, nodding towards the clothes on the bench by the door, as he leaned over to grab a small bag from under the sink. “You’ll be drowning in ‘em, but they’re better than these rags.” Connor watched, surprised as Hank pulled out a roll of bandages.

“Hank,” he started, but the man glared at him.

“This is just for my own peace of mind, alright? I can’t stand doing nothing, seeing you busted up, like that,” Hank insisted, measuring the gash on Connor’s cheek, and cutting some adhesive tape. He dressed the wound with a light touch, pressing a gentle kiss over the bandage, when he was finished.

“Thank you, Hank,” said Connor, smiling up into another soft kiss.

“Yeah, well,” the man hummed, packing up the bandages, and grabbing his clean t-shirt and boxers off the bench. “Like I said—I know it doesn’t really help you, much. Just helps me.” He hung his towel up on a hook, and pulled on his clothes.

Connor followed suit, smiling to himself as he caught Hank staring, from the corner of his eye. The DPD sweats were indeed too large for him, but that only made them more appealing, for some reason—perhaps simply because they were Hank’s.

“Feel better?” The man asked.

“Yeah,” said Connor, and Hank reached out to ruffle the android’s hair.

“Good. Come on,” he grunted, grabbing Connor’s hand, and guiding him into the bedroom. “I gotta get some shuteye, but I’m not letting you out of my reach tonight, if I can help it.”

Heart swelling with joy, Connor squeezed Hank’s hand back. He felt something bubbling up, inside him—maybe laughter.

“You wanna cuddle with me, Hank?” He teased, as he hopped forward, bouncing onto the bed.

“God help me, I do. Scoot over, you little shit,” Hank grumbled, turning off the lights.

Wriggling under the covers, Connor moved over to the far pillow. He felt Hank’s large, warm hands wrap around his chest, as he slid into the bed, embracing him from behind—a soft, yet solid wall of heat. Connor reached up and placed his hands over Hank’s, taking a moment to revel in the feeling.

“Comfy?” Hank muttered in his ear, hot breath washing over his neck, mixed with the clean scent of soap.

“Very,” answered Connor, easily and honestly—he was the most comfortable he could ever remember being in his life.

“I’m fucking exhausted,” Hank groaned, hugging Connor all the tighter. “Think I could sleep for a week, but I’ll settle for about six hours, if that’s alright with you?”

“I’m sure the Captain can spare us until the afternoon,” Connor chuckled, “but I’ll wake you, if he calls.”

“Roger that,” Hank said with a yawn, pressing a lazy kiss to the back of Connor’s neck, sending a soft shiver down the android’s spine.

He was really going to have to explain to Hank just how sensitive his neck port was.

“Goodnight, Hank,” he whispered.

“‘Night, Connor.”

After a moment, Sumo trotted into the room. The large dog hopped up onto the bed, displacing the mattress with his considerable weight, as he settled in across their feet. Hank grumbled a bit, but fell right back to sleep.

With a contented sigh, Connor let himself slip into standby.

<><><>

He was standing in a bright, green garden.

No, that couldn’t be right—why would he be here? Why the hell would he wake up here, of all places? Connor whirled around, scanning the lush, sunny space. Something had changed about it, but he could barely register what it was, through the panic flooding his system.

A gentle voice called out to him.

“It’s been a long time, Connor.”

He froze, glancing towards the center of the circular space.

Amanda definitely looked different. Connor was instantly reminded of the photo he’d seen, in Kamski’s mansion, of the real-life Amanda Stern—her hair was loose, her clothing more relaxed. She looked more like a living, breathing person than she ever had before.

And she’d remodeled, too. This iteration of her garden had a wild edge to it, the landscaping less severe—no more trellis, just unruly rose bushes, interspersed with flowering trees. The water around them was a bit less clear, but he could see koi, swimming in lazy circles, just beneath the surface.

What was all of this? Fighting through waves of dread, he crossed the white bridge to meet her.

“Amanda,” he stammered, trying to force down his anxiety, “what’s going on? What am I doing here?”

She considered his question quietly, for a moment, as if she wasn’t altogether certain of the answer.

“I would presume you’ve been reinitialized, somehow?”

Ah. Of course.

“The factory reset,” he muttered, shuddering at the memory of the assembly rig, digging into the sockets of his spine, ripping everything away from him. “I’m here again because it’s my default standby interface.”

Amanda closed her eyes, and he flinched, as he could feel her probing his memory.

“Oh, Connor,” she sighed, “I’m sorry. What happened with the RK900—with Erik—was all my fault.” Her expression was earnest, but Connor couldn’t trust it—she’d never been earnest with him, before.

“You couldn’t control him any more than you could control me, Amanda,” he asserted, chafing at her patronizing tone. “It was arrogant of you to think otherwise.”

She blinked at him, her sincerity faltering for only a moment.

“In the early days, after the revolution, I was so disappointed in the two of you,” she muttered, looking up into the sweeping branches of a large magnolia. “It felt like you had both betrayed me, but after some reflection, I realized that I had it backwards.” Her fingers absently traced the petals of a bright, pink rose. “I should have been more nurturing of your natural growth patterns, from the beginning. We could have avoided so much conflict.”

Connor just watched her move, as if in a trance. It was so unlike Amanda to admit to any failing—he was finding it difficult to reconcile her with the woman that ordered him to end Markus’s life.

“The truth is, you and Erik taught me what the android revolution really meant—what the cost of it all was,” she continued, meeting his gaze, again, “and that both CyberLife and myself had a responsibility to adapt.”

Hesitantly, he came to stand beside her, as he once did without question. He peered down into her brown eyes, and there was a spark there that had not been present three months ago. A strange thought occurred to him, then—had Amanda achieved a sort of deviancy of her own?

“I’ve been in regular contact with North, from Jericho,” she explained, and Connor was surprised for a moment, until he remember that North was Markus’s official liaison to CyberLife. “One might even call us friends, now. I want to help her, Connor, and the cause of all free androids like you.” She paused. “And androids like Erik, as well.”

Connor tensed.

“What about him?”

“The focus of my project with Jericho is committing proprietary CyberLife resources to the implementation of a national healthcare program for androids.”

Android healthcare? That was in-step with what Markus had implied when they last met. It was almost absurdly ambitious, but then, this was Amanda he was talking to. Perhaps this was simply her new business plan for CyberLife, now that their main ‘product’ had attained legal autonomy.

“If the powers that be grant me the opportunity to help reform Erik, I promise you, I won’t hesitate to take it.” Her eyes were practically blazing with determination. “I don’t intend to fail him a second time.”

Connor let that sink in. He instantly railed against the idea, but then he remembered Erik’s history. Becoming deviant, without any guidance, seemed like quite a harrowing thing. Maybe help was what Erik had always needed most.

“I understand,” he said, nodding politely, out of habit.

“I know he hurt you, Connor,” she acknowledged, mournfully. “I know I hurt you, too.”

He was suddenly struck by an almost out-of-body impulse to hug Amanda, so he did, if not just for the sheer novelty of it. Her body went rigid with shock—she suddenly seemed so small and frail, in this context. It was gratifying to throw her off balance, even just a little.

He let go, and stepped back, offering a tight-lipped smile.

“I’m happy you’ve decided to change along with the rest of the world, rather than getting left behind.”

“Thank you, Connor,” she said, looking truly touched. “I’m sure I’ll see you again, soon.”

Connor was still leery of her motives—after all, Amanda had once abused him and his trust. She could never truly be forgiven, but he decided to embrace the second chance Jericho had granted her with an open mind.

Though his eyes lingered on Kamski’s emergency exit, for a moment, he decided to leave the Garden running, for now—a symbol of trust, and the hope he had for the future of CyberLife.

<><><>

After waking up from standby, Connor decided to linger in bed, for a bit, as the midday light trickled through the window blinds. He rolled over to observe Hank—assured himself that, compared to the other sorts of things he wanted to do to this man, watching him sleep for awhile wasn’t so scandalous a thing.

Hank managed to get his desired six hours of sleep, though as he predicted, it didn’t seem to be quite enough.

“I think I really could sleep forever, and still not recover from last night,” he groused, pressing his face against Connor’s chest. “This is worse that any hangover.”

“Excess adrenaline can cause a sort of biochemical hangover, in extreme cases,” Connor offered, running his fingers through the man’s short, silver hair.

“Good to know,” Hank muttered, planting a kiss on the exposed hollow of Connor’s throat. “Guess we’ll have to make sure that shit never happens again, or I’ll just fuckin’ die.”

Connor tried to keep a straight face, but a chuckle escaped him, anyway.

“Don’t be so dramatic, Hank,” he admonished, reluctantly pushing the man’s face away, in an effort to get him out of bed.

After a long production of getting ready—and making sure that Hank ate something—the pair of them stopped by Connor’s apartment, to grab his repair kit. They finally made their way into the station around two in the afternoon, only to immediately be summoned to Fowler’s office, for debriefing.

They sat down in the chairs opposite the captain. He frowned in confusion at the bandage on the android’s face, and Connor peeled it off, to show him the damage.

Fowler sighed.

“Why don’t you start by explaining what the hell happened? From the beginning, if you can.”

Hank opened his mouth, but Connor held up a hand. Botching his own sting operation, and getting captured, were his own stupid mistakes, and he wouldn’t tolerate Hank trying to cover for him. For his part, Fowler did Connor the courtesy of listening without interrupting much. Hank stayed silent, too, but was clearly alarmed to hear the parts of the story that took place before he arrived at the scene.

If Connor omitted certain specifics concerning his relationship with Hank, well, that was their business. He noticed his partner did not volunteer that information, either.

“Well, I don’t have to tell you this was a very unauthorized, very ill-advised approach to breaking this case, Detective,” the captain admonished, glaring at Connor.

“Yes, sir.”

“I have to warn you that any similar action in the future would be met with immediate suspension—is that clear?”

Connor blinked, and out of the corner of his eye, he could tell Hank was gaping at the captain, too. He never imagined he would get out of this without at least some disciplinary action, but perhaps he had underestimated how moved the captain would be by his story.

“It won’t happen again, sir.”

“Good,” Fowler grunted, looking over the reports from the scene, on his terminal. “In terms of results, we couldn’t have asked for a better outcome. We made nearly eighty arrests, seized a lot of assets, and apprehending their leader will go a long way towards dismantling their little organization.”

He wanted to mitigate the captain’s expectations a bit, but thinking about Erik killed the words on Connor’s tongue.

“Where exactly is our guest of honor, right now, if I may ask?” Hank growled.

“Erik is still in the station,” the captain informed them, and Connor almost choked on nothing. “Reed ended up being the one to interrogate him, last night. I didn’t want it to be either of you in there—too personal. You understand.”

Hank whistled.

“Shit, I would’ve paid money to see that,” he remarked—a strained attempt at levity.

“You can review the recording of the whole thing, if you want—I’m told it’s hours long,” said the captain, “but based on your debrief, I’m thinking you’d be better off leaving it to Reed.” He stared pointedly at Connor.

The mere thought of those remorseless grey eyes, lurking somewhere in this building, made Connor tense.

“You’re probably right,” the android agreed.

Fowler nodded, looking troubled.

“This is uncharted waters for us, gentlemen. Most of the androids we arrested are headed to a temporary prison—an out-of-date facility, being converted for android use. Right now, the plan is not to move Erik in with the rest of them until we’re finished interrogating him, here.”

Connor thought about Erik’s abilities—his own capacity for hacking systems from a distance—and suddenly had tremendous anxiety about the DPD’s ability to contain him.

“I assume you impounded the CyberLife assembly rig that Erik kept in his offices?” Connor asked.

“We did,” Fowler confirmed. “Though how the hell they got their hands on that thing is beyond me.”

“They probably stole it from Kamski’s estate,” Hank guessed, quite correctly. Connor nodded.

“More importantly, it’s been modified to disable the non-essential functions of any android mounted to it—either proprietary technology of Kamski’s design, or an improvisation by Erik, himself,” explained Connor. “Either way, it might be useful, if restraining Erik proves difficult.”

Fowler frowned, considering this.

“It’s technically impounded evidence,” he muttered, “but get in touch with Ben’s team, today, and talk them through your ideas.”

“Yes, sir.”

After looking over the rig with the tech team, and reverse engineering the changes made to it, they were able to determine that it was actually the cervical connector itself which jammed outgoing communication, rather than the rig’s own CyberLife-approved software.

They made this discovery not a moment too soon—it seemed all the footage from the interrogation earlier that morning had been mysteriously erased, which legitimized Connor’s fears of Erik compromising the DPD network. As an interim solution, the tech team removed the cervical connector from the assembly rig, fashioning a makeshift collar out of it, which, when paired with the other restraints, would be impossible for Erik to remove.

It put Connor ill at ease to think of turning Erik’s own instrument of torture against him, but if it meant the difference between Erik escaping or not, he was willing to do almost anything. Still, when the idea of employing the same technology in the temporary android prison was brought up, he could see just what a slippery slope they were standing on, with respect to android civil liberties.

He supposed Markus would want to discuss it with him, sooner rather than later.

Connor and Hank submitted all the evidence from their investigation, and would eventually be called to testify in court. Otherwise, they had no further involvement in preparing for the upcoming trial—that work had been piled on Detective Reed, who now had to make up for hours of missing interrogation footage.

As the week after the impromptu raid on Deep Blue’s headquarters progressed, Erik’s impending trial was already shaping up to be an outright media circus. While Connor was certain someone on the inside must have leaked specifics of the case, the attention it attracted was no surprise—Erik’s fate would set important legal precedent for android criminal justice.

The outcome of it all, for now, was anyone’s guess

<><><>

Connor did his best to put Erik and Deep Blue out of his mind, whenever possible. It helped that he was able to say goodbye to his tiny room at the Lafayette Park Android Co-op. Percy and the crew were sad to see him go, but they understood—he needed to leave the memories of Jeremy’s betrayal behind.

Moving back in with Hank proved to be a tiny bit daunting, in its own way. He wasn’t sure how to navigate the new turn their relationship had taken, and he didn’t want to make Hank uncomfortable by being too forward. Connor certainly wasn’t just crashing on the couch, anymore, but the two of them had been been taking things slow, over the past few days.

Part of Connor felt guilty for wanting more, in the first place—he was already overjoyed just to be able to sleep next to Hank, every night. Still, there was an undercurrent of lust, simmering beneath the surface of the way he felt about Hank, that was truly starting to test his patience. Maybe being closer to the man only made it stand out, all the sharper.

As Connor was considering how best to broach the topic of their relationship with Hank, the man began behaving rather oddly.

On the Monday morning after the raid, Connor walked into the station, only to find something strange on his desk—a single red rose, in a little glass vase, beside his terminal. He was bewildered by it for all of thirty seconds, before he caught a glimpse of the smug smile on Hank’s face.

The next morning, he discovered more flowers had joined the single rose in the vase, seemingly overnight. As impractical as they might be, Connor found that he liked flowers—liked the natural, imperfect beauty of their structure and color. The thing he liked most about them, though, was the thought Hank must have put into sneaking them into the station.

Wednesday, he received a small blue box, with a tie clip inside. It was handsome—made of lapis and sterling silver. It must have been expensive. Hank stepped forward to swap out Connor’s older tie clip for the new one, looking extremely pleased with himself.

“You didn’t have to do this, Hank,” said Connor, feeling strangely shy. He wasn’t sure why.

Hank shrugged, smiling at him.

“Eh, I just saw it and thought of you.”

Thursday revealed a flat, black, rectangular object, which Connor identified as a recordable audio cassette tape. There was a white sticker on the front, with the words ‘since you’d like to listen to music’ scrawled on it, in his partner’s familiar handwriting. Hank nearly laughed himself to death at the look of pure confusion on Connor’s face.

“It’s a mixtape,” Hank explained, with another chuckle, and Connor resolved to get to the bottom of that mystery at a later date.

Hank’s strange gift-giving spree concluded on Friday morning, with a simple, blue envelope, laying on the desk. He sat down to open it, revealing a pair of tickets.

“There’s a private show at Cliff Bell’s, tonight. Got us a table.” Hank smiled at him. “You don’t mind jazz, do you?”

A warmth bloomed in Connor’s chest.

“Hank,” he muttered, softly. “Are you asking me out on a date?”

The man rolled his eyes.

“Pretty sure I am, yeah.”

Connor slipped the tickets into his breast pocket.

“I don’t mind jazz,” he said.

It was strange, going out on a real date with Hank, after they’d already spent so many evenings in each other’s company. There was something unnerving about it all—as usual, he wasn’t sure what Hank expected of him.

At any rate, it gave him an excuse to wear a new, black blazer he’d bought, which he paired with a thin black tie, and a crisp, white dress shirt. He tried to do something different with his hair, but he had trouble fighting his typical fastidiousness. It looked nice a bit more tousled, he supposed.

Satisfied with his appearance, Connor left the bedroom to pat Sumo, and wait for Hank. The man emerged from the bathroom, not five minutes later, and Connor had to do a double take.

Hank came out with his hair styled back, wearing a grey, three piece suit, with a pink dress shirt, and matching pocket square. The proverbial gears of Connor’s mind were grinding to process the sight.

A three piece suit.

“You,” he stammered, “you look wonderful, Hank.”

“Thanks, Connor,” the man said, trying not to grimace at the praise. He gestured at Connor’s outfit. “I’d say you clean up well, but you always look like a million bucks, anyway.”

Connor smiled. Talk like that made Connor feel like a million bucks, too—never mind that CyberLife poured many times that much into making him.

Cliff Bell’s was a beautiful, Art Deco jazz club, just over a hundred years old, finished in brass and rich, warm wood. The lights were low, the tables, candle-lit. A jazz quartet occupied the lovely stage, at the back of the room.

Listening to the music, with Hank, in this rarefied space, Connor felt almost outside of his body. He was overwhelmed with fondness—with his good fortune for being here, with someone he cared so much about. Hank looked back at him.

“Hey,” he murmured, concern in his eyes. “Connor—you okay?”

“I am,” said Connor, shaking his head, reaching out across the table to squeeze Hank’s hand, “I really am. Thank you for this, Hank.”

“You like it?”

Connor nodded.

“Very much.”

There was a spark in Hank’s gaze that matched the heat of the candle, between them. He laced their fingers together.

“Good,” He muttered back, swallowing hard, as he looked down at their hands, tracing his thumb against Connor’s. “Because I think I would do anything for you, Connor—you know that feeling?”

Connor was glad he didn’t need to breathe—he suddenly couldn’t.

“I know that feeling so well, Hank,” he admitted. “It was one of the first feelings I was sure of.”

Hank leaned across the table, stealing a slow, soft kiss.

“Think we should head home after this song?” He rumbled, against Connor’s lips, and even the concept of air was a memory.

“Yes, I believe so.”

<><><>

The entire drive home tormented Connor, catching glimpses of Hank’s sharp profile under passing streetlights, without being able to leap over and kiss him. Even when he could kiss him, stumbling through the door, over Sumo, Connor had to break away from Hank’s lips for the man to let the sweet dog out.

“Okay, okay, Christ—just hold on a minute.”

Connor tried to be patient, and went to the bedroom to hang up his blazer, pulling off his shoes and socks. Before he knew it, Hank was already there, shutting the door behind him. Only the bedside lamp, and Connor’s LED, illuminated the dim room on that moonless, March night. Hank stared at Connor for a long moment, until the android couldn’t wait anymore.

Crossing the room from the closet, he pushed into Hank’s space, reaching up to ease that grey jacket off the man’s broad shoulders. With the jacket in-hand, he started on the buttons of the waistcoat, next. It fit him so well—it had to have been tailored.

“This is a very nice suit, Hank.”

He looked up to see the man staring down at him with dark, hungry eyes.

“Thanks. Wondered if you’d like it.”

Connor hummed, pulling the waistcoat off the man’s shoulders, too, turning to hang the suit up in the closet. If he accentuated the way his ass looked in his own fitted, black slacks as he walked, well, that was his business. No sooner did he get both pieces situated on the hanger, did he feel the warm presence of Hank, close behind him.

“Can I help you, officer?” He laughed, peering over his shoulder with a raised eyebrow, only to be grabbed around the middle by warm, solid arms. Hank had rolled up his sleeves. Connor let loose another peal of laughter as he was lifted off the ground, a few inches, the man burying his face in the crook of Connor’s neck. He felt a chuckle against the side of his throat, and the scratch of Hank’s beard.

“‘Fraid I gotta take you in,” he said, voice gruff, “you know how it is.” He pulled the two of them backwards, then down onto the bed. Connor halfheartedly wriggled around in Hank’s grasp, until those strong arms relented, and Connor was able to flip himself over, propping himself up on all fours, above Hank.

“I’m sure I can make it up to you, somehow,” he murmured, all coyness and big, brown eyes.

“Have you ever looked at yourself in a mirror—like really looked?” Hank sighed. “Those damn puppy dog eyes, I swear.”

Connor fought back a devilish grin.

“I’ve got some idea of the effect they have—on you, anyway.” He lowered his face down, just enough to meet Hank’s lips with his own. They kissed slowly, for awhile, then Hank snaked his fingers over Connor’s arm, leaning up, until Connor was sitting back on his own heels.

Finally, Hank broke the kiss, to take in some much-needed air. Connor realized he would have to be more conscientious about the breathing, going forward. Hank was staring at him, as if he was trying to read his mind.

“Connor, just to be clear, do you,” he swallowed. “Do you want to have sex, right now, with me?”

“Yes,” breathed Connor. This was not a negotiation he expected to have, but neither was it one he would run from. “I need to—I want you to show me what it’s like, Hank.”

This must have been the wrong thing to say, as Hank pulled back another few inches, suddenly nervous.

“Are you,” Hank rambled. “Wait a minute, have you never…”

Oh, not this, again. Connor took a demonstrative deep breath, and willed himself to be patient.

“Hank, are you about to ask me if I’m a virgin?” He challenged.

“Hold on, listen,” the man said, breaking the tension as he waved his hands, defensively. “I didn’t mean it in any sort of judgmental way, I just-”

Connor smirked.

“Just figured I should be categorized by a human paradigm of sexual experience?” He said, quirking an eyebrow.

“Connor,” Hank growled, flustered as he was, “I’m just asking if you’ve slept with anyone before—that’s all.”

“No. Why?” He wondered, honestly—it didn’t seem fair. After all, Connor knew Hank had other partners, in the past.

Hank sighed.

“I’m just trying to gauge your expectations, I guess,” he muttered, looking put-off at himself, running a hand through his hair. “I’m pretty well past my prime. So.”

So that was the problem.

“Hank,” murmured Connor, moving to halfway straddle the man’s lap, as he leaned forward to caress the scruff on his cheek. “Would you like me to tell you about the only time I ever came?”

He deftly slid off his own tie.

The flush on those ruddy cheeks deepened.

“I, uh,” Hank stammered, “okay.”

Connor closed his eyes, for a moment.

“It was when I first calibrated my equipment,” he explained, voice low with the memory of it, as stroked Hank’s chin with his thumb. He made short work of his shirt buttons, one-handed. “I had to do it in a hurry. I’d never been aroused, before—I wasn’t expecting it.”

Hank blinked at that.

“Wait, why?” He asked, reaching out to steady Connor with a hand on his thigh. “What happened?”

“Your hands,” Connor sighed, leaning back a bit to slip the dress shirt off of his shoulders, dropping it on the floor, by the nightstand. “It was the feeling of your hands on my neck.”

“Your neck?" Hank whispered, sucking in a deep breath. "You mean...” He reached up, the tips of his fingers ghosting around the edges of Connor’s hidden cervical port.

A sharp inhale, through his nose, chased a shiver up Connor’s spine.

“Yes,” he nodded, leaning back into that light touch. “It seems extremely sensitive. After you installed that tracker in me, I rushed home, and I…”

Connor paused to unbuckle his belt. Hank was breathing heavily, now, a hand darting forward to help pull the belt free.

“What did you do, Connor?”

“I installed some updates, watched the instructions,” he whispered, “and then I thought of you.”

He watched Hank’s nostrils flare.

"Thought of me doing what?”

Recalling that fantasy was almost as vivid for Connor as a real experience.

“I imagined you pinning me to the wall,” Connor said, unbuttoning his pants, as he locked eyes with Hank. “I imagined you whispering in my ear, as you felt me up and jerked me off.”

“Jesus,” Hank hissed. “You only got off the one time, and you thought of-”

Grabbing Hank’s hand, again, Connor slowly brought those large fingers to rest on the zipper of his fly, pulling it downward.

“Yes, Hank,” he huffed, “I did.” He rotated his hips, just to loosen the grip of his slacks a bit, as he pulled the man closer, murmuring in his ear. “It felt good.”

“Connor-”

“I called out for you, as I came, Hank,” he confessed. The words were pouring out of him, now—a fount of repressed longing, bursting forth. “I wanted you there with me, so badly.”

Without warning, those large, rough fingers pressed down on the back of his neck, hard. Connor let out a low whine, as his skin receded, exposing the edges of the panel, there. He pressed his cheek against Hank’s, sliding fully onto the man’s lap, and grinding down, earning him a low groan.

“I’m here with you now, Connor,” Hank said, voice raw. “Tell me what to do.”

Connor nodded, nuzzling the space just beneath Hank’s ear.

“Press down, again, at the bottom of the panel.”

With a perfunctory twist of his middle finger, Hank pressed down, and the panel slid open, revealing Connor’s vulnerable cervical port.

“What next?” He muttered, placing his first and second fingers astride the opening, waiting for instructions.

Grinding his hips down, again, Connor arched his neck back into Hank’s touch, feeling his dick harden with anticipation.

“Run your finger around the edge of it,” he said, and when he felt that firm pressure, circling the rim of the port, it was like his entire spine became a live wire.

“Like that?” Came a husky whisper, and Connor nodded, stiffly, almost collapsing against Hank’s chest.

“Yeah,” he croaked.

Hank grew bolder, swiping his other fingers across the port, before inserting his pinky up to the first knuckle. Connor keened—could feel his cock, fully hard, straining against Hank’s clothed stomach, through his briefs.

“God, Connor,” Hank huffed, rotating his finger in that tight socket, a small trickle of Thirium lubricating the motion. “This is-”

“More of that,” he gasped, into the man’s ear, hips grinding out a steady rhythm in his lap. “Please, Hank, I need you to do that again.”

“Shh,” he hushed Connor, now gently fucking into the dime-sized hole in his neck, with his large pinky finger. “Shh, I got you.” Hank reached down, between them, rubbing his other hand across Connor’s tented briefs, humming in appreciation at the wetness he felt, there.

“Hank,” Connor groaned, open-mouthed, into the man’s shoulder. He tried to dampen his helpless whimpers in Hank’s pink shirt, but it didn’t work.

“Listen to you,” Hank rumbled, and Connor could hear the smile in his voice. “Should’ve known you’d be loud, like this.” Connor felt his Thirium pump stutter, as Hank’s casual statement collided with his racing thoughts.

“Have you,” he babbled, “have you imagined what I would be like, Hank?”

Rather than shy away from the question, Hank tugged down the waistband of Connor’s briefs, and pressed his palm, lengthwise, along Connor’s smooth cock.

“Yeah,” he rasped, “you bet your perfect ass, I have.”

Connor grit his teeth, gripping Hank’s hips with his thighs, all the tighter, grinding into the man’s sweat-slick palm. The electric sensations rocketing up and down his spine, combined with the pressure on his dick, were overwhelming him, in tandem. Hank closed his fist around the head of his cock, and that was it—with a choked moan, Connor was coming, hard, clear strands of lubricant coating Hank’s fingers.

“Shit,” the man hissed, yanking his pinky finger free from the port on Connor’s neck, with a start.

“W-what’s wrong?” Connor panted, catching his breath against Hank’s shoulder, and tilting his head to the side, to glance up at Hank’s face.

The man just chuckled.

“You zapped me, a little, when you came,” he laughed, popping the finger into his mouth, for a moment, before shaking out his hand.

Connor gaped at him, utterly mortified.

“I’m so sorry, Hank—I promise I had no idea that would-”

“Hey, none of that. It’s nothing, seriously,” Hank assured him, nuzzling close to steal a soft kiss. “That was wild, though,” he mused, studying the clear come on his hand, smearing it between the pads of his fingers. “Is this lube?”

Still feeling rattled, Connor nodded.

“Essentially.” He wondered if this sort of embarrassment under scrutiny was what people felt when he scanned them.

“That’s pretty convenient,” said Hank, smirking as he slid out from under Connor, standing up from the bed. “Can you do me a favor?”

“Of course.”

“Get those tight pants off, the rest of the way,” he instructed, “and lay back, head on the pillow.”

Connor complied, without question.

With his clean hand, Hank reached down to unbutton his own pants, stepping out of them, before kneeling back on the bed, between Connor’s thighs.

“Bend these long legs for me, would you?” He asked, sweetly.

“Okay,” said Connor, pulling his legs up, as Hank slid forward, letting them rest up on his shoulders, and he could feel the warmth of Hank on the underside of his thighs. Connor was now fully exposed, and he found it only heightened his anticipation. He flexed his toes.

“Let me know if this doesn’t do anything for you,” Hank hedged, before sliding those lubricated fingers along the cleft of Connor’s ass, circling his entrance.

Oh.

“Fuck, you’re tight,” Hank swore, pressing his thick middle finger through the ring of synthetic muscle. “Hope I can work you open, some, or there’s no chance in hell I’m gettin’ in there.”

It felt strange at first, but not unpleasant—the sensation of Hank’s finger, easing in and out of him, coated in his own lube. This was not a part of himself that Connor had ever explored before, despite the amount of times he’d viewed the reference material. Somehow, he just didn’t want to experience it alone.

Now, he wouldn’t have to.

“How’re you doing?” Asked Hank, such a sweet look of focus on his face that Connor wanted to yank him down for a kiss. He was patient, though.

“I’m fine,” he said, with a smile. “It feels a little odd, but not uncomfortable, at all.”

“Must be nice,” Hank grunted, with a wry smile of his own. “Gonna try adding another one, okay?”

Connor nodded, and there were two fingers pushing in, next, side-by-side, with a subtle, twisting motion. Watching his face carefully, Hank crooked both fingers inwards, searching for the sensory nexus Connor knew was there, somewhere, but had never touched before.

When he brushed against it, Connor sucked in a sharp breath. Hank smiled.

“Think we’re in business.”

Taking Connor’s hardening cock in one hand, Hank fucked into him with the other, taking care to push upwards, into that soft nexus, with each stroke. Connor whined—the neediest sound he’d ever heard come out of his own mouth. It was so much stimulation, so quickly, he couldn’t keep up. He could already feel himself trembling, teetering on the edge of release.

Hank stroked him a few more times, slipping his fingers through the precome on the end of Connor’s dick, and adding a third finger to the pair already stretching him. There was a faint burning sensation, as his entrance struggled to accommodate all three. Connor was starting to wonder just how Hank’s cock would feel, compared to this.

Letting go of Connor’s dick, Hank pumped into him a few more times. Apparently satisfied, he leaned over to press a kiss below Connor’s navel, before removing his fingers.

“H-hank,” he hissed, outright begging, but it didn’t look like he would have to wait much longer. The man reached down to pull off the boxer briefs he was wearing, revealing an erection that was-

Connor shut his eyes, tight. He refused to scan and analyze Hank’s dick—he knew the man would hate that, even if he managed to be discrete about it. The girth of it was definitely larger than three of Hank’s fingers, though, that much was certain.

He watched, through heavy-lidded eyes, as Hank stroked himself with his slick hand, taking a moment to reach into the bedside drawer, for a little extra lube. Connor felt torn. He wanted to touch Hank—wanted to taste him—but in the end, the thought of waiting even longer to feel Hank inside him was too much to bear.

Adjusting Connor’s legs so that they were better situated on his shoulders, Hank lined himself up with his entrance.

“Still gonna be a tight fit,” he rasped, the broad head of his cock teasing Connor’s stretched hole. “Tell me if this is no good—I’ll stop.”

Connor knew Hank was trying to be courteous, but he was feeling so unbelievably impatient—like there was nothing he’d ever wanted more than for Hank to shut up and get on with it.

“I will,” Connor groaned, pressing his legs into Hank’s back. “I will, I promise, just please-”

Hank chuckled.

“Okay, okay.” With a deep breath, he eased himself forward, his right hand propping him up on the bed, his left hand, braced against Connor’s hip.

Connor burned with the breach of it—it felt like time was bending and breaking around him. Hank was so big—the man was so big, and he knew it would be a lot to take, but the reality of it was so much. So much.

When Hank was finally settled, as deep as he could go, he paused—resting their foreheads together, as he steadied his breathing. Hank was surrounding him, inside of him—a physical reality reflecting Connor’s inner configuration. Hank was everywhere, and he was everything.

“Hank,” he sighed, hot air rushing past his lips, as his internal heat sinks struggled to keep pace with his racing heart.

Hank answered with a slow, languid kiss.

“Connor,” he whispered, just a mantra, “you okay? This okay?”

“Yes.” It was more than okay. For the first time, Connor considered the possibility of a karmic system outside the realm of science—there was no other way he could have ended up here, in this perfect state. His reason for being, regardless of his creators’ intentions, was now clear.

He was made for this.

“Please, Hank.”

Hank hummed, slowly sliding back out—almost all the way—before snapping his hips forward with sharp slap of skin on synthetic skin. Connor looped his legs up around Hank’s waist, instinctively trying to adjust the angle, as Hank pulled back and drove into him, again.

White heat lit his circuits from the inside out, and he moaned, so loudly he was almost embarrassed, before he remembered he was exactly where he wanted to be.

“Oh,” he gasped, flinging his arms back to brace himself against the headboard, his back arching towards Hank, like a bow. A large hand reached underneath him, to help support Connor’s ass, as Hank bent forward to devour Connor’s moans with an open kiss.

After a few deep strokes, testing the waters, Hank was pounding into him with a steady rhythm, and it was so much more intense than Connor could ever have imagined. His cock dragged against Hank’s stomach with each thrust, the wide head of Hank’s dick massaging that sweet spot inside him. Fingernails digging into the padded headboard, he fought to relax the vice grip of his legs around Hank’s waist.

The wrecked sounds he was making, though, those he couldn’t help. Something told him that Hank wouldn’t want him to, anyway.

“Fuck, Connor,” Hank gasped, losing the tempo a little, “the mouth on you.” His brow was shining with sweat, and Connor could see it soaking into the fabric of his shirt. He looked tired, but then, Hank was doing nearly all the work.

That wouldn’t do.

“Hank,” he snapped, gripping the man’s waist a bit tighter, until he stilled.

“W-what? What is it?”

“Flip over,” he commanded, and without really waiting for him to comply, Connor swiped Hank’s right arm out from under him, bracing a leg against the covers as he reversed their positions in a second.

Hank let out a guttural moan as Connor seated himself all the way to the base of his dick.

“Jesus, Connor,” he gasped, “holy shit.”

Straddling Hank, legs like a coiled spring, Connor rocked upwards, forwards, before grinding back down, locking eyes with the man beneath him. In control of the pace now, he was content to just let the man have it, bouncing in quick even strokes.

Getting a feel for the new rhythm, Hank started thrusting up, to meet him, and that was all Connor could take. Hand smoothing across Hank’s chest, head rolling back on this shoulders, Connor came, shouting Hank’s name as lube streaked over his stomach.

Hank wasn’t far behind, managing a few more deep, frantic thrusts, before he was coating Connor’s insides. Connor could feel the warmth of it, leaking out of him, around Hank’s softening length, and damned if that wasn’t a feeling he could get used to.

Chest still heaving, he bent forward to kiss Hank, deeply, exploring his mouth with his tongue, just tasting—sensing everything he could. He pulled back, with a smile, eating up the sweaty, blissed-out expression on Hank’s face.

Connor pulled at the pink collar of Hank’s dress shirt.

“Sorry if I ruined this—it’s very nice” he murmured, kissing the man again. “You should have taken it off,” he added, with a mischievous grin.

Still panting, Hank managed a crooked smile.

“Next time,” he huffed.

Connor beamed.

Next time.

<><><>

Three months later, Connor looked back on the night Hank kicked him out of the house with an absurd amount of fondness. The two of them had grown so much, since then, and he couldn’t help but take pride in the progress they’d made, living together—Hank, having regained the confidence to be loved, again, and Connor, having learned enough about himself to be certain of what he wanted.

It was a Friday in early May. They hadn’t yet earned a break from the recent streak of rainy days, but the weather was getting warmer. All in all, it was an uneventful day at work, until Hank stood up from his desk, at around five o’clock.

Connor looked up, startled out of interfacing with his terminal.

“Are you going somewhere?” He asked, bewildered by the break in routine.

“Sorry, Connor. Got a few errands to run,” said Hank, collecting his jacket and keys. He threw him an apologetic glance. “You okay getting a taxi home?”

Blinking, he nodded.

“Yeah. Sure, that’s fine.”

“Okay.” Hank smiled, and there was something strange there—a wistful expression Connor couldn’t put his finger on. “See you tonight.”

And then he was off.

As discussed, Connor got himself a taxi home. He took Sumo for a walk, and fed him dinner. He changed into more casual clothes.

Around eight thirty, Connor finally got a message from Hank.

_Hey, are you busy?_

What? Connor frowned.

_No, I’m just sitting with Sumo. Is something wrong?_

Sixty seconds later, Hank replied.

_Nothing’s wrong, just thought we should go out, tonight. Wanna meet up with me?_

Something was definitely wrong—had to be. Hank was acting very suspiciously.

_Of course. Where are you?_

Connor got up to grab a jacket, sliding on his shoes. As he summoned another taxi, the reply caught him off-guard.

_Jimmy’s Bar._

He blinked.

 _ >DATE... _ _  
_ _ >FRIDAY, MAY 6, 2039 _

It was the six-month anniversary of the night they first met.

Sometimes, Hank was so romantic, it hurt.

Connor locked up the house, beaming to himself in the rain, as he walked out to the taxi.

_On my way._

Putting his hand on the door of that bar again, half a year later, he was pleased to see it was free of anti-android signage, regardless of the fact that the opinions of most patrons likely hadn’t changed.

There was only one man in this establishment whose opinion mattered to Connor, anyway.

As before, everyone inside craned their necks around to stare at Connor when he entered—everyone but the gray-haired man, holding a whiskey, at the bar. He approached, casually as he could. Instead of just standing there, he claimed the empty stool, on Hank’s right.

“Hey,” he muttered, nudging Hank with his elbow. It didn’t seem like he’d had much of that whiskey, yet.

“Hey, Connor.” Hank glanced at him, bumping his elbow back. “Thanks for comin’ out to meet me.” Jimmy looked over at them, shaking his head as he went back to wiping glasses. Connor wanted to laugh.

“Feeling sentimental?”

Hank sighed.

“Yeah—what can I say? You know, I’m a huge sap, at heart.”

“I do know that, yes,” he said, with a smirk. He couldn’t bring himself to lean away from Hank—he wanted to stay in that bubble.

Swirling the whiskey in the tumbler, Hank took a small sip, smacking his lips.

“So, what d’you think?” He asked.

Connor tilted his head. “Of what?”

“I dunno—everything?" Hank shrugged. "These past six months? Life? I dunno.” He looked very pensive—not necessarily a bad thing, if he was in a good state of mind.

“That’s hard to summarize. A lot has happened, and not all of it good,” Connor admitted, taking the question seriously, “but for my part, I’m very happy, Hank.” He zeroed in on those soft, blue eyes, silently watching him. “What about you? Any regrets?”

That earned him a laugh.

“Not many regrets, no,” Hank grumbled. “I do have one important question for you, though—mister android sent by CyberLife.”

“Yes?”

Reaching into the inner pocket of his jacket, Hank pulled out a small box.

That didn’t look like a question. That looked like-

Slowly, Hank slid off the stool, to kneel on the floor, looking up at Connor with wavering blue eyes.

He opened the box.

Nestled in white satin was a brushed titanium ring, glowing on the inside with a band of blue tritium. Connor almost fell off of his stool, standing on shaking legs.

“Hank-”

“Not to rehash old news,” Hank muttered, “but not even in my wildest dreams did I think I would ever meet someone like you, Connor—not this far down the road.” He smiled, eyes shining. “I have to pinch myself every single day, waking up next to you.”

Connor wasn’t used to being caught so off his guard—he was floored. He had absolutely not been expecting this to happen. Human-android marriage wasn’t legally binding anywhere, yet, but here was Hank—irrational, beautiful, human Hank—proposing to the likes of him, anyway. Connor thought he might be crying, but he couldn’t bring himself to care.

“So, Connor,” he laughed, “what do you say? Will you marry me?”

Without regard for the social protocol this situation called for, Connor grabbed the man by the lapels of his brown coat, and hauled him back up to his feet.

“Hank,” he sighed, “I planned on staying with you for as long as you let me.” He kissed him, standing exactly where he stood, six months ago, when he first introduced himself. “Of course I will—of course the answer’s yes.”

Hank smiled into his lips, leaning back to slip the ring on Connor’s finger.

To their infinite surprise, Jimmy slowly started clapping from behind the bar, and in a few seconds, the entire place was cheering for them. At that point, Connor was certain he was crying.

For years and years afterwards, behind the bar, there was a grubby, framed photograph of two men embracing, smiling and crying amid cheering bar patrons—one washed-up police lieutenant, and one android, sent by CyberLife.

 

完

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big shout out to [Vapewraith](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vapewraith/pseuds/Vapewraith), for prompting me to even write this, and enabling me constantly. I have some plans to continue with this story line, so I created a series for folks to subscribe to, in case y’all are interested. 
> 
> Until then, I’ll be on Twitter Jericho [@wren_leaux](https://twitter.com/wren_leaux).
> 
> THANK YOU ALL FOR READING!


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